


Our Place in Time (**On Hiatus**  Sorry!)

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The 4400
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Alpha Vernon Boyd, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crossover, Dystopia, F/M, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Multi, Slash, Slow Build, Survivor Guilt, supernatural powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years ago, Stiles was kidnapped by Gerard Argent as a message to Scott… a message that went unheeded.  When Stiles is taken a second time and this time isn’t returned, Scott blames himself for ignoring the warning of what would come.  It changes him, changes them all.  And though Stiles’ loss turns Scott into the very thing he once fought against becoming, he still won’t give up on the idea that Stiles is alive somewhere, just waiting for Scott to find him, wanting to come home.  And Scott is <i>not</i> going to fail him, again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Our Place in Time  
>  **Fandom:** Teen Wolf x The 4400  
>  **Pairing:** Multi -- Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski with mentions of Scott McCall/Isaac Lahey, Isaac Lahey/Erica Reyes, Boyd/Erica Reyes hints of Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, possibly even hints of Derek Hale/Peter Hale (please don't shoot me), probably a few others by the time I'm through and that's only looking at the Teen Wolf bunch. -.-;;;  
>  **Rating:** PG-13, rating subject to change as needed  
>  **Warnings:** spoilers through the season 2 finale of Teen Wolf, angst
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** _Teen Wolf_ does not belong to me. It belongs to the brilliant Jeff Davis and all the other writers, producers, etc., who work with him. _The 4400_ does not belong to me, either. It belong to Scott Peters and René Echevarria. No harm was meant. I'm just playing with these guys, I’ll put them back where I found them when I’m done... more or less intact. ^_~
> 
>  ** _January 7, 2013:_** OK. This all started back when I first started watching Teen Wolf. I would watch a few episodes and then get this bizarre, random desire to watch the 4400. Don't get me wrong. I love the 4400... but it wasn't a show I would normally connect with Teen Wolf other than the vague supernatural power connection. Then in a sudden flash of insight, I realized why. Patrick John Flueger (who plays Shawn Farrell on the 4400) and Dylan O'Brien ( who plays Stiles on Teen Wolf) look _uncannily_ alike. And the wheels started turning. Then verstehen1 jumped in on the action and the wheels produced plot.
> 
> The basic questions: What if Stiles never returned home after helping Scott and company save Jackson? What would that do to the characters of the Teen Wolf world? And what if that abduction was one of 4400 others that happened around the world over the last 80 years? What if Stiles was then returned with the other 4400 to the base of Mt. Rainier in Washington? What if he and Shawn met... and realized exactly how much alike they looked? What if there is more to the story?
> 
> Well... I want to know the answers. (Don't get me wrong, I already know plenty of them, but I want to know more and want to share them with you. ^_~) Now, assuming that most of you got here from TW, I'm going to make this as friendly as possible to anyone not familiar with 4400 canon, but if you'd like to get a quick crash course before reading... here's the wikipedia page: <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_4400>. This first part is all Teen Wolf, though, so I hope you'll give it a chance. ^_^ Enjoy? ^_^

Another set of bruises, another pattern of scrapes painted across his back by the harsh brush of concrete. Another split lip, black eye, cracked rib. It didn't matter. He wouldn't fight back. He never did. He would heal and this was all he could do -- take the beating, take the drunken anger, take the pain and frustration of a father's love gone awry. It was his fault, anyway. It was his fault for not paying attention, for letting himself get so wrapped up in being a hero, in being a lover, that he'd forgotten what was really important... _who_ was really important.

He'd regretted that distraction every day of his life since.

When the sheriff's punches slowed, calmed to the dull thud of a shaking fist against his chest, Scott turned his head, dared to look at his best friend's father out of bruised, swollen eyes that were already starting to heal. The sheriff was slumped over, now, exhausted, one hand splayed on Scott's chest for support. His chest heaved for breath as he fought for calm, but he didn't say a word. He never did. Eventually he straightened, lifted his hand from Scott's chest and turned a look full of the despair of utter hopelessness on the younger man before turning and striding resolutely away.

Scott would have preferred the sheriff keep hitting him. It hurt less than those despairing broken looks and, unlike the wounds inflicted by the sheriff's eyes, at least the ones inflicted by his fists would heal.

Isaac sidled up next to him, eyes round and upset as he leaned in to sniff at Scott's newest bruises. Quietly he asked, "Scott... why do you do this? Why do you let _him_ do this? What good does it do?"

Scott let his head tip back against the wall as the wounds started to close. He said, "Because it's all I _can_ do, Isaac. I failed him. I failed..." Abruptly he turned, slammed his fist into the wall behind him, ignored it entirely as he heard something crack. Scott growled, eyes glowing sullenly red in the dark. "Why? Isaac why the hell did I leave him alone? We knew Gerard was still out there. We knew there was still a threat. And he was hurt! Why did I let him go off alone? Didn't that first scare teach me anything?" He pushed away from the wall, started prowling around the alley, kicking at the garbage cans and throwing whatever came within easy reach. When he made it back to Isaac's side, Scott punched the wall again, choking off the howl of anguish before it had made it halfway out of his throat.

Isaac put a hand on his back and said, as he always did, "We didn't know. Scott, we really couldn't have known. Gerard was dead -- or as good as -- and there was no way that any of us could have known it wasn't safe."

That was all they ever said when Scott got like this, all Scott would let them say. He didn't want to hear about how it wasn't his fault, he didn't want to be absolved of his guilt. His guilt was what made him who he was, now, was his anchor as surely as Allison had once been. He'd failed his best friend, his brother... Stiles. Two years. It had been two _fucking_ years since Stiles disappeared. No one knew where he was. No one knew who'd taken him.

Gerard had taken him. That was what they all told each other at night, in the dark, when they thought Scott wasn't listening. Of course, it was Gerard. It was Gerard who'd taken him the first time, as a warning to Scott. He'd returned him... but Scott hadn't heeded that warning, so Gerard had taken him, again. He was the only one with the resources, the only one who could have done it. Even the alpha pack that had shown up after the battle couldn't have been responsible. If they had been... well. Scott would have known by the time he was done ripping through them like tissue paper. He'd been wild with it when he'd found out that Stiles was missing, again -- inconsolable with grief and guilt. Peter had sensed the danger in it as kin to his own madness and tried to reason with him, but Scott had wanted no part of reason. He only wanted to turn his own pain on as many people as he could. And recognizing in _that_ the impulses that had driven _him_...

...Derek had shown him how.

The alpha pack never stood a chance. Between them, Derek and Scott had slaughtered all who wouldn't heed their warnings to run. He was an alpha after that -- would have been considered rogue but for the fact that he still nominally let Derek hold his leash -- but the other alphas now stayed away from Beacon Hills, wanted no part of the howling madness that could descend on its alphas with no warning. They were as safe as they could be, but it didn't fucking _matter_. It didn't matter because the one person who should have been safely at home, who should have benefited most from their shared reputation, was still missing.

Erica and Isaac talked about it among themselves, sometimes, when they thought Scott and Derek weren't listening. They whispered that if Gerard had taken him, surely Stiles was dead by now, or better off that way. Surely they'd never find him alive... surely they should move on. They'd whispered about it more and more as this year went on. They were eighteen, now, ready to go off to college, start new lives, find new packs if they had to, and though they'd cared for Stiles, they held to the belief that Stiles wouldn't have wanted them to live this way. He had loved life so much... knowing that his friends were trapped in this grief because of him would have torn him apart.

Scott knew that, too. He knew it better than anyone, but he just couldn't give up. He couldn't give up on the idea that Stiles was alive somewhere, just waiting for Scott to find him, wanting to come home. And Scott was _not_ going to fail him, again. So, if all he could do for now was to let Stiles' father blunt his own anger and grief on Scott's body, then Scott would let him do it -- whatever it took to keep the sheriff alive and sane for when Stiles came back. Because he _would_.

Scott wouldn't let himself believe differently.

* * *

Scott's mother didn't like it when he spent the night at the Hale house. Then again, Melissa McCall didn't like a lot of things about what her son had become in these last two years. He'd become the beast she had once feared he already was. He'd become a liar, a murderer... a monster. And that was never more apparent to him than after one of these run-ins with the sheriff. So, he stayed away, couldn't bear to be around her after one of those confrontations.

When Scott and Isaac reached the Hale house, Scott headed straight up the stairs, not willing to talk to anyone or even be seen by anyone. Erica watched him go from the hallway, a sad frown on her face as she was stymied in her attempt at greeting by his abrupt departure. She then turned to Isaac with an eyebrow raised in silent query. He sighed, shook his head, "It was a bad night. We were walking back from Dr. Deaton's and we ran into the sheriff. He'd been drinking -- you could smell it on him -- and, well... you know how that goes."

Erica stepped forward, slid an arm around Isaac's waist and hugged him to her, said softly, "Yeah. I know how that goes. We'll let him be for now. Maybe he'll come down on his own."

"Yes. He might. Perhaps you two should hold your breath while you wait." Peter stepped out of the living room, his finger holding his place in the book in his hands. He shook his head, "This has got to stop. Someone needs to shake some sense into at least one of their heads. In fact, I'll volunteer to go visit the sheriff. This can be over and done with in a night."

Before either of the two betas could engage with Peter, Derek came down the stairs with a soft growl of warning in his throat, "Snapping the sheriff's neck is not going to win any of us any points with local law enforcement." When Peter opened his mouth to protest the innocence of his intent, Derek growled again, " _No_ , Peter. Leave it alone. It isn't your concern."

Peter held up his hands in surrender and turned to go back into the living room, "Fine. Have it your way. But, Derek, it _is_ my concern. It's _all_ of our concern. Those two are a powder keg just begging for the right spark and they're going to take the whole town with them when they eventually explode. I just hope we both survive long enough for me to say 'I told you so' when it happens."

Once he'd gone, Derek turned towards Erica and Isaac, "Was it really that bad?"

Isaac shrugged, "It was bad, Derek. Was it worse than it ever is? That I couldn't say. I think..." He trailed off, ducked his head.

Derek walked over, put a hand on Isaac's shoulder, "What, Isaac?"

Isaac sighed and ducked his head further. He said, "I know that neither of you wants to hear it, but it would be better for everyone if we could just... I don't know. If we could get some closure. If we _knew_ one way or the other -- if..." He trailed off, again, this time with a wince as Derek's hand tightened on his shoulder, claws pricking through the leather of his jacket.

"He's got a point, Derek." Jackson joined them in the foyer, a disinterested look on his face that no one ever really bought. At Derek's angry glare, Jackson said, "Look. It's our senior year. One way or another, most of us are going to be leaving, at least temporarily. That's going to leave you and your Uncle here alone to deal with Scott and the sheriff. You think this is all bad, now? Just wait until you have to do it without the rest of us to help run interference. If the guy's dead, then they can both have their breakdowns and move on. If not... well, then maybe it's time we went after the Argents for real and got him back."

Isaac's eyes widened in horror, "You're talking about a war."

Jackson shrugged, "I'm talking about expediency. One way or another this holding pattern ends in August and I don't want to be caught off guard when it does."

Derek pushed past him into the living room. He hated to admit it, but Jackson had a point. The Hale pack had been dancing around the Argents ever since that night. Allison had cut off all contact with them -- the only one of them she still spoke to was Lydia, who wasn't even pack -- and her father had never been particularly forthcoming. And neither would admit that Gerard was even alive, much less that he was holding Stiles. If they would only admit the truth, only give them a _chance_... but no. They didn't trust and weren't trusted in turn. As much as Derek hated to admit it, violence was starting to look like the only possible answer and his betas were starting to see it, too.

The rest of the pack followed him into the living room and took perches on various pieces of furniture to watch as he paced, tried to think it out. His uncle merely put his book down in his lap, folded his hands across it and waited. Peter was good at that -- waiting for the right moment. It was a skill that Derek had not yet developed and he sometimes envied the older man his ability to look at a situation with such cool logic and no emotional attachment. It was all a lie, Derek knew, but it was a convincing one. He remembered when he'd been younger, how he'd played by this fireplace while his uncle and father looked on, how his uncle could almost always be enticed into playing right along with him -- him and Laura.

Derek paused in his pacing, snarled softly, then shook his head and moved on, further into the room towards the windows. It had been a long time since then, but he still remembered, couldn't _help_ but remember. He remembered how his uncle had always been the first one on site whenever someone had been hurt, remembered how soothing the man could be, how gentle had been his touch... how swift his vengeance against anyone who'd hurt what was his. Now... how things had changed. Underneath it all, though, Derek had to believe that the Uncle Peter he'd loved as a child was still there in some way -- buried, afraid to reach out, maybe, but still there. And his indifference to Stiles' fate was an act, too, Derek suspected. His uncle had respected Stiles, had regretted not turning him when he'd had the chance... had regretted even more that circumstances had made Stiles had refused the bite when he _had_ had a chance to offer it. Still, his uncle wouldn't get directly involved if he could help it. He preferred to hide here in the mansion with his books and his memories and lick his wounds in private. No risk.

The others were starting to talk in harsh whispers behind him as he paced, impatient as all young are when forced to inactivity. He forced the sound of their voices into the background, but couldn't help overhearing what was said. Erica had said something about maybe calling Boyd, but Peter shook his head, denied that suggestion before it had even been half-voiced. Derek was grateful. Boyd was yet another regret that Derek didn't wish to face. During the battle with the other alphas, he'd gotten in the middle, determined to support Scott, to protect him in his time of weakness. He'd done it, too, protected the one he saw as his true alpha, his role model... the one he wished to call "friend." And, in so doing, he'd taken down one of them, himself. Scott was not the only one among them to become an alpha that day. Unlike Scott, however, that new responsibility had sat well on Boyd's shoulders, brought maturity and strength to the man beyond his years. He'd left Beacon Hills when he graduated, found happiness to the north in college and in a new pack who respected everything he had to offer them. He'd grown up. He'd grown up well... and it had been none of Derek's doing. That rankled and Derek didn't appreciate being reminded, and he _certainly_ didn't need Boyd's help to deal with Scott _or_ the Argents.

He pushed all of that to the background as he thought -- his uncle's withdrawal, his pride both for and against Boyd... all of it. He ignored Isaac as he tried to get Derek's attention, ignored Jackson's harshly timed jibes at the other boy's expense, too. What he couldn't ignore, though, what he didn't _dare_ ignore... was the person who eventually swept into the room behind them. Derek had known it was too much to ask that once he'd retreated upstairs, he would stay there, not with his own hearing as acute as Derek's and _this_ topic of conversation flying around.

Derek paused in his pacing, turned to face the figure backlit by the light from the foyer, a growl forming unbidden in his throat at the sheer menace pouring off the younger alpha. Scott's grin was all teeth as he advanced on them, "What did I just hear about a war?"

Isaac leapt to his feet and, in the dumbest move Derek had ever seen anyone make, interposed himself between the two alphas. Then again... Scott often granted Isaac liberties that he granted no one else and it gave the other man the advantage in situations like this. So, until he had reason to interfere, Derek would hold his peace and let the younger wolf try, because _this_ was not a situation that Derek wanted to resolve with violence. Isaac held his hands up, eyes pleading, "Scott, please. This isn't the answer. You _know_ it isn't the answer." As Scott's growl kicked up a notch in volume, Isaac said, "You're talking about a war with _Allison_ , Scott. Don't you remember? You loved her once! You can't want to hurt her!" Everyone else in the room held their breath as they waited to see how Scott would respond.

Scott tilted his head, an almost comical look of confusion on his face as he answered Isaac, "Can't I? She certainly didn't hesitate to hurt _me_. What makes me so different?"

It wasn't going to work. Derek could see it in Scott's face. It was too close to his last run-in with Sheriff Stilinski. Not even Isaac was going to be enough to distract him this time. Before Derek could intervene, before the tension in the room could shift to the violence of an all-out brawl, a calm, dry tenor interrupted the conversation, "The fact that you're smarter than she is. And the knowledge that you get more flies with honey than a stick." Peter rose from his chair by the fire and stretched his arms over his head. As he lowered them, he shrugged, "We gain nothing from a war with the Argents. We have a truce of sorts, right now, and it has kept peace in this town for two years. More importantly, it has kept others off of our territory. We have not and _will_ not risk that to rescue one boy whom they may not even have in their posession." At the cry of outrage that statement provoked, Peter rolled his eyes and held up his hands, "All I'm saying is that we don't have enough information to rock this particular boat. If we're going to start a war with the Argents, _I_ at least want to know that we stand a reasonable chance of achieving our objective."

Seeing that he had everyone's attention once again, Peter said, "I have had occasion to maintain contact with one Lydia Martin. I have taken advantage of that. _She_ has had occasion to maintain contact with one Allison Argent. I suggest that _we_ take advantage of _that_." When all he received in response were a round of blank stares, Peter dropped his head to his hand and began massaging his temple, "I take back what I said about you lot being smarter." Sighing, he said, "While Allison may not help _us_ or talk to _us_ , she may speak to Lydia. Lydia is also a friend to Stiles, is she not? Perhaps the query from her would go rather less amiss."

Derek nodded, relief lining the edges of his eyes. He'd wanted an answer that didn't include outright war. Here was the advantage to his uncle's cooler head and appreciation for keeping his own hide intact -- and if Derek detected a motivation behind it that would also keep everyone else's hides intact... he'd be kind enough to his uncle not to give him away. He said, "That's a much better idea than running off half-cocked about this. Peter will speak with Lydia, get her to help us. The rest of you just... lay low for now. We don't want to stir up any trouble before we need to or warn them that it's coming if we eventually need the advantage of surprise."

The others filed out, leaving for their own beds, their own homes. Scott shook his head in disgust before retreating back upstairs, but he did stay. With a wordless glance between them, Erica went home for the night and Isaac followed Scott upstairs. With any luck, he would manage to calm the other alpha out of the mood that was currently riding him before it could become a problem. Derek was grateful for that much -- he didn't need to fight a war on two fronts.

Turning back towards the fireplace to thank his uncle for his cool-headed interference, Derek found Peter already back in his armchair, book open in his lap. Only... wait. Derek raised an eyebrow, huffed out a laugh under his breath, "You had me fooled for a minute there, Uncle. I thought that was one of the ones you'd salvaged from the library... but it's just one of those gadgets in a fancy cover, isn't it?"

The fond smile that spread across Peter's lips was genuine and all the more precious for its rarity. He shook his head sadly at Derek and said, "I still don't understand why you resist my attempts to bring you forward into this century. You're younger than I by many years and didn't spend six of those years in a coma out of touch with the world. You should be all over these modern conveniences." At Derek's skeptical look, he held up the mini-tablet in his hand and said, "In this 'gadget', as you call it, I have the entire contents of our former library in the palm of my hand." He lowered the tablet to his lap, dropped his gaze to rest upon it. His next words were spoken quietly, as though he were afraid to give them too much weight, afraid to be caught out, "If this tablet is destroyed, I can purchase a new one, link it to my account and have instant access to all the books that would otherwise have been lost. There is more value in that than there is in the physical form of the book, itself."

Derek sat down in the chair across from him, reached out a hand to stroke along the leather cover. Though it was rare to find his uncle so forthcoming, and the relationship between them was still far from easy, Derek found himself enjoying these rare moments of connection -- these moments when his Uncle treated him like an equal, like a man who could share his burdens, not like a child who must be protected and led about. It brought back to mind those memories of watching his uncle sitting in this very spot, talking to his father like this. Derek took these moments as a sign that even his uncle was finally starting to heal -- and it made him even more hesitant to engage the Argents in any way. For Peter's sake.

As Derek pulled his hand back from the faux-book cover, he answered Peter in a voice just as hushed, "But there is no connection there, Uncle. No one's hands but yours have held this and you'll replace it with the newest gadget as soon as it comes out. When I pick up my copy of The Time Machine... I am doing more than picking up a book to read for an hour's worth of entertainment. I find comfort in the fact that your hands held it before mine, and my mother's before yours, and my grandmother's before that. I won't argue that there isn't more risk in owning an object of sentimental value -- it can be lost, be taken away and not so easily replaced -- but even you can't argue the value of that connection."

Peter shook his head and said, "The value of such a thing isn't worth the risk of losing it, Derek. You, of all people, should see that." His lips pulled into a sneer, "Having lost so much, that is."

They were almost a physical shove, those words, and Derek resented Peter's attempt to break the moment down around them. _This_ was why it was so hard to work with the older man. He seemed determined to undermine Derek's every attempt to make them into a strong healthy pack, determined to show him that in these circumstances it was impossible and worse, was not even worth trying. Derek refused to believe that. He snarled under his breath, "At least I have the courage to keep trying."

"And how _is_ that working out for you, Derek?" was Peter's quick reply, "You've a rogue alpha in your territory of whom you are ridiculously and hopelessly fond and who barely gives you the time of day. The only reason you don't get more grief over him is because we have managed to maintain this odd truce with the Argents and none of the others want to get involved and risk upsetting that balance. And now... now you want to destroy everything we've managed to rebuild for the sake of one human child who has probably been dead for two years. It's madness, Derek. Surely you must see that!"

Derek's snarl became more audible at those words and he bit out, "Stiles isn't dead and Scott is not rogue."

Peter threw back his head and laughed, "Oh, what it must be like to live in the world you live in, Derek! An alpha with no pack of his or her own and who is not bound to an alpha-pack is, by very definition, rogue. You are not strong enough to hold an alpha pack and even if you were, you couldn't hold him. As for Stiles... I was as fond of the boy as anyone, but Derek... if Gerard has had him in his clutches for two years, he _is_ dead... or as good as. No responsible alpha would even _think_ about risking their pack like this on the off chance that he isn't."

For just a moment, Derek entertained the thought of leaping from his chair and tackling his uncle where he sat, of tearing out his throat a second time. But that was no answer. Instead, he leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on his uncle's forearm and said, "No. I suppose no responsible alpha would risk that. But, Uncle... no responsible _friend_ wouldn't. There was a time when you would have risked everything for my father. What happened to the man who willingly put his own life on the line for a friend?"

Peter's answer was a harsh whisper, dragged from his throat like a beast being drawn to its own death, "He died in a fire eight years ago. Perhaps you'll find him when you find Stiles."

Derek leaned forward, placed his other hand gently under his uncle's chin to tilt the man's head upwards and more easily catch his gaze. He smiled, "Well, that man has a certain talent for resurrection... so maybe we'll get lucky on both counts."

Derek was rewarded by Peter turning his arm in his hold to grip tightly at Derek's own for just a brief moment before disentangling himself and deliberately turning back to the "book" in his hands. Derek released him, gave him back his space, his point made. Peter was the only blood family he had left. If he had to drag him kicking and screaming back into the land of the living, so be it. He'd do it for all their sakes. Derek didn't give up easily and he sure as hell wasn't going to start now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
> 
> It has been a long time since I've posted a WIP. So, I'd like to apologize in advance for that. I have a really good idea of where this story is going to go and how it's going to get there, though, and I'm banking on the fact that I'll stay as excited about it as I currently am long enough to get it to where it needs to go. ^_^ I wish I could tell you how long it will be or how many parts or how often I'll update... but I've learned the hard way that making those kinds of promises is never a good idea. O_o;;; Here's hoping you'll stick with me!
> 
> Questions, comments, papaya?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Stiles next opened his eyes after that flash of blinding light, he was not where he expected to be. As he turned to look around, he almost lost his footing in the shifting sands beneath his feet and his brain mentally cataloged it as a clue to his location. Once he'd caught himself he turned again, more carefully this time, and took in the glass-like water behind him and the tremendous mountain looming beyond that. His heart sank. He didn't know this place, had never been here before... and he wasn't alone. There were hundreds of other people standing on the beach with him, maybe even thousands. Something was definitely rotten in the state of California -- if he was even still _in_ the state of California. Somehow, he was beginning to doubt that he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who are still with me. I appreciate your patience. ^_^ This is the chapter where I'm starting the actual tie-in to the 4400... and we learn what happened to Stiles. ^_~
> 
> Again, assuming that most of you have made your way here via Teen Wolf, if you're interested in a quick, less than three minute crash course in the 4400 canon... [check out this video](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/40257860963/the-4400-season-2-premiere-ad-its-for-the). It's the season 2 promo, but it serves as a wonderful summary for the entire show. ^_^ Enjoy!

It was over. Somehow, they'd won. Gerard was dead, or as good as, and the Kanima's vengeance was gone along with him. And with her grandfather exposed for what he was -- in the end, nothing but a scared old man who'd wanted to live more than he wanted to do what was right -- Allison had backed down from her need for vengeance, as well. The best part of all, though? Scott -- Stiles' goofy, lovable, Boy Scout of a friend -- had been the one to make it all happen. If Stiles hadn't been so exhausted, he'd have done a dance of pride and joy. Scott was usually content to let Stiles do their plotting, their scheming and planning, but he was no idiot, either. He was fully capable of doing his own plotting, scheming and planning -- and Stiles enjoyed nothing more than those rare occasions when his friend stepped up to the masterminding plate.

It had paid off, today. They'd won the day and walked away virtually unscathed. And with saving the world finally out of the way, Stiles had a long overdue appointment with his shower and his bed that he intended to keep. There was so much he needed to wash away and forget... the game, the kidnapping, losing his chance with Lydia before he even realized he had one... the final battle -- the day had been rotten all around and Stiles was _done_. He was beyond done. He would be there for his friend whenever Scott needed him... but right now, he just needed a break. He needed to go home, make up some excuse to his father for why he'd gone out again and then retreat to his bedroom and sleep for a week. Only it wasn't to be.

At about the halfway point on his way home, Stiles noticed an odd sparkling of lights coming from somewhere outside and overhead. He thought about stopping, thought about calling Scott, Derek, Dr. Deaton... whoever, but in the end, he just decided that he didn't care. He _couldn't_ care. He didn't have the energy. So, instead, he drove right past it. Done. Really. Just, _done_. Someone else could take care of whatever this was. Stiles didn't want any damned part of it. Not tonight.

Only... six blocks from his house, the lights were still overhead. They were still there five blocks from the house, too. Four blocks away, the sparkling light was so bright that he had to pull down the visor on the car, actually thought about pulling out his sunglasses to deal with the glare, too. Three blocks from home, he had to stop completely -- it was too bright to keep driving and the sparkling lights were giving him huge sunspots in his vision. He got out of the car to try to figure out what on earth had been following him all this way... and had just enough time to look up and say, "Oh, come _on_!" before the light swept him away into darkness.

* * *

When Stiles next opened his eyes after that flash of blinding light, he was not where he expected to be. As he turned to look around, he almost lost his footing in the shifting sands beneath his feet and his brain mentally catalogued it as a clue to his location. Once he'd caught himself he turned again, more carefully this time, and took in the glass-like water behind him and the tremendous mountain looming beyond that. His heart sank. He didn't know this place, had never been here before... and he wasn't alone. There were hundreds of other people standing on the beach with him, maybe even thousands. Something was definitely rotten in the state of California -- if he was even still _in_ the state of California. Somehow, he was beginning to doubt that he was.

After taking that moment to take stock of his situation, the full impact of what he was seeing finally caught up. Stiles had no idea where he was. He had no idea who any of these people were. And somehow, he'd been transported from his Jeep -- when he'd been _three damned blocks_ away from home -- to somewhere that was completely unknown to him. Even Gerard couldn't have arranged this.

Stiles turned again, tried to find some point of reference other than that damned mountain that would help him figure out where he was but quickly found that moving more than a few paces in any one direction was impossible in this crowd of people. An imprudent movement on his part nearly had Stiles stepping on the feet of a woman in bell bottoms and a psychedelic shirt. He backed away from her just to bump into a tall dark-skinned man in an old-time air force uniform. He stared up at the man for a moment, appreciating the view -- Stiles was never too out of it to appreciate a pair of dark, brooding eyes and a well-muscled physique -- then moved to get out of his way, too. When that courtesy had him crashing into yet another person and his rebound from that had him stepping on the toes of a fourth, Stiles threw up his hands and frantically windmilled them in front of himself in an effort to keep from getting into anyone else's personal space. What the everloving _fuck_ was going on? Had he been kidnapped to a beach costume party this time? It just didn't make any sense. What was even the point?

When it became clear that everyone around him was content to just stand there milling around and staring at each other like sheep, Stiles decided that he'd had enough. They might be content to stand around dumbly and wait for the slaughter, but Stiles wasn't. He was going to find out what the hell was going on here and he was going to get himself home.

Stiles started jostling his way through the crowd, trying to find at least a four foot space with no one else in it. At first he was polite, asking people to please let him through, but when that proved entirely ineffective in this chaos, he resorted to shoving. He just needed to get out of the crowd. He needed to see what was happening. He needed to _know_. But when he got to the front of the crowd, he almost wished he hadn't. This was so much more than what he'd thought he'd find, even given the already extraordinary circumstances. They were surrounded by government agents and camera crews. What the _hell_? The government agents at least made sense in an odd conspiracy theory kind of what, but... camera crews? All of his experience with strangeness of this magnitude told him that it took place in silence, in secret... far away from media attention. This was way beyond anything he had a basis to understand.

Stiles turned a slow circle back away from the cameras to take in the people in his immediate vicinity. Maybe someone else knew something that he didn't. It stood to reason, didn't it? Someone had to know _something_. His gaze eventually settled on a woman who had come to this party as underdressed as Stiles had. She was small and had dark brown hair that curled just enough to suggest ringlets, but was unkempt and tangled. She was dressed in her pajamas, her feet bare, toes wiggling nervously in the dry sand as though unable to keep still. Stiles felt an instant stab of empathy for her -- he didn't much feel as though he could keep still, himself, right now. Before he could open his mouth to ask her anything, though, she turned a mournful look on the crowd around them, dark eyes lost and confused. She looked like Stiles felt. She whispered, "Mistake. This world is a mistake. We're spinning out of control. I don't belong here."

Stiles gaped at her for a minute, then hung his head and muttered, "Oh man. Thousands of people on this beach and I have to end up next to the one person more out there than me." He looked back up at her, eyes narrowed, "If you start singing 'Two by two, hands of blue,' I am going to be officially creeped out -- way more than I am already." At the woman's blank look, he rolled his eyes, "Because you look kind of like... you know what? Never mind." He started slowly edging away, more determined than ever that he needed to get the hell out of here and get home. He turned and made a break for the trees, because whatever the hell was going on here, he did _not_ want to have any part of it and if his dad had been freaking out earlier, he had to be completely flipping his lid by now.

He didn't get very far. One of the government types caught him before he'd even made it as far as the tree line and tossed him back with the others. He was none too gentle about it, either. Stiles landed hard on the ground, the jarring as he fell causing every bruise on his body to sing out its own note of awakened pain. He sat there, dazed, unsure whether he should laugh or start crying. He'd been done with this day already -- _so_ done -- and had wanted nothing more than to go home. Why was nothing ever as easy as that?

As though Stiles' rough treatment had been a signal to stir from their stupor, the voices of those nearest Stiles started rising, a few crying, some shouting. He picked out English, Spanish, Japanese, something that he thought might have been Hindi -- all those voices and all so frightened. As each person's voice started rising, it had a contagious effect on those around it and the overall noise level started to climb, the aimless milling started to take on more energy, more purpose. It was a bad idea to stay on the ground. Stiles knew it. It was a horrible idea. The more upset everyone got, the more likely they were to trample someone trapped underfoot -- Stiles had seen it happen in Black Friday crowds gone ugly. He knew he needed to get up off the ground, but for the first time in years... he just couldn't. His mind knew what had to happen, but his body was locked, frozen, unable to enact it. His heart started to speed up, his breath to come in shorter pants that weren't bringing in anywhere near enough air. It had been years, but his body recognized the feel of this all too well... he was having a panic attack.

Stiles sat there on the ground for a minute, gasping for air, then started grasping at anything within his reach to get help -- the hard leather of someone's boot, the swirl of someone's skirt, the fall of someone's pant leg, _anything_... but no one paid him any heed. He curled in on himself, tucked his head between his knees in a last-ditch effort to regain control... and just when he started to think that any hope of help was a fantasy just out of reach, a warm hand descended on his shoulder and a worried voice spoke four words into his ear like a Godsend of a distraction:

"Hey, man... you OK?"

The hand started rubbing warm, soothing circles around his back and up onto his neck... and it _helped_. Stiles hadn't expected that. Not even his father's touch had been able to soothe him out of panic attacks this quickly. But this touch... this touch was... shit. Stiles didn't have a word for what it was, but somehow that one touch, alone, forced the panic to unlock its hold on Stiles' airways and let him get a desperate breath of oxygen into his starved lungs. When he was finally able to look up there was a pair of dark brown eyes barely a foot from his and the boy they belonged to couldn't have been any older than Stiles. He wore a sherpa lined jeans jacket and a red shirt and had a tousled mop of tawny brown hair. He leaned closer to Stiles, a concerned look on his face, and asked again, "Seriously, dude, you OK?"

Was he OK? Stiles let a small smile slide onto his lips as he nodded. When everyone else had ignored him,, this boy had stopped, had helped him. In spite of the situation, Stiles felt a laugh start to bubble up from somewhere inside him -- wouldn't you just know? Another Boy Scout. He was clearly just as scared as Stiles, but still, he'd done what he could to help -- like Scott would have. Man, if only Scott were here. Then this wouldn't seem so... weird. Wait. _Scott_. Before the other boy could ask anymore questions, Stiles pulled out his phone and shot off a quick text to Scott to let him know that he was all right because someone had to be missing him by now -- they had to be.

\--DUDE. You are NOT going to believe what just happened to me. I know you and Allison are probably busy, uh... "making up," but... call me?--

That accomplished, Stiles felt instantly better. This was not going to be like last time. _This_ time, Scott was going to come for him. Stiles just knew it. He smiled, took a deep breath, then another, and another. With each breath, the next came easier until he was breathing normally again -- normally enough to pass, anyway. Pulling a shaky smile on, Stiles finally answered the other boy's earlier questions, "If you're going through hell, keep going, right?"

He hadn't expected anyone to recognize what he was quoting -- hell, _he'd_ never heard it before Ms. Morrell had thrown it at him in therapy and Stiles considered himself fairly well-read -- but before the other boy could even ask what he was talking about, the creepy River Tam look-alike bent over and finally smiled, lifted a finger in front of her and solemnly intoned, "We shall not fail or falter; we shall not weaken or tire. Give us the tools and we will finish the job." She then looked at them both expectantly.

Stiles looked at the other boy and raised an eyebrow. The other boy looked back at him and shrugged. They both turned back to the woman, but Stiles was the one who asked the question, "Dude... what?"

She frowned, then hunched in on herself and said sadly, "I thought this was a game -- a quoting game. I like quoting games. I have an excellent memory for books."

Stiles winced at the woman's downtrodden expression. There was something fragile about the woman, something that made him loathe to upset her further... made him want to see her smile again, if he could.

...and it had _nothing_ to do with the fact that she looked like Summer Glau. Nothing.

"Winston Churchill, right?" When the woman's smile blossomed under someone else's gaze, Stiles resigned himself to losing her attention to this person who had guessed her quote correctly. And of _course_ it had been Winston Churchill. She'd probably recognized _his_ quote and that was where she'd gotten the idea for her own from. Stupid. If he'd figured that out and guessed... Damn. Another opportunity to impress a girl lost before it was even recognized. Stiles stood, brushed himself off and turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person who had spoken... and found himself face to face with a little girl. She smiled understandingly up at him, then turned and melted back into the crowd before Stiles could even ask her name.

Stiles turned back to the Summer Glau look-alike to ask _her_ name, grateful for the second chance, but before he could even get the question out, the official-looking men and women around them started moving in, separating them into smaller groups and moving them off the beach. Now, Stiles hadn't exactly wanted to stay on the beach, but he wanted to go where these men were taking him even less. Where the hell was Scott, anyway? He glanced down at his phone and cursed, only then realizing that he still hadn't heard back from his friend. Thrown over twice in one night? What the _hell_? They were going to have a serious talk about the responsibilities of friendship when Stiles got home.

As Stiles' eyes started to resume their earlier panicked haze when the crowd jostled around him, the boy who'd helped him before put a hand back on his shoulder and shook his head. Stiles swallowed down his fear and nodded. The other boy smiled, "It's gonna be OK, Stiles. We're practically in my backyard -- Mt. Rainier isn't more than a couple of hours from where I live. With all those camera crews, this has to have made the local news. My family has to have seen it." There was a promise in that -- that the boy's family would come looking for him, might even find him, and could maybe help them both out of this mess. Stiles nodded to show he understood. The other boy smiled, tightened his grip on Stiles' shoulder once more before they were separated. He yelled back over his shoulder, "Stiles! My name's Shawn Farrell! You got a last name so I can find you, again, later?"

Stiles yelled back, "Stilinski!" just before he was nearly yanked off his feet by a scowling man in body armor. He held up his hands and said, "Whoa, dude! Careful. I've had a rough day, you know. A little gentleness wouldn't kill you." He was still protesting his treatment when they started loading him onto the truck, still stalling to see where they'd taken Shawn and his Summer Glau clone. He never found them. He could only hope that Shawn would have better luck finding him when they got to wherever they were going.

* * *

Those first days after their appearance on the beach -- the beach by Mt. Rainier, Stiles' memory supplied -- were busy, filled with tests and debriefings and questions. They were kept as isolated as the government could manage, held in special bunkers by the National Threat Assessment Command and allowed as little contact as possible, even with each other. Stiles figured that NTAC just didn't want any of the detainees putting the dots together before those in charge could do it -- and given what Stiles had seen of most of agents he'd spoken to... well, that was pretty likely. They weren't all the brightest bulbs in the pack. But, Stiles already had a few theories and suspicions that he didn't want to examine too closely and he was sure that some of the other detainees did, too... and none of them were all to eager to share with those holding them captive.

They'd asked him questions -- a lot of questions -- trying to avoid coming to the same conclusions that Stiles was avoiding examining too closely, probably. One agent, in particular, had seemed pretty on the ball when she'd questioned him, anyway, had hit a little too close to home with her own theories. Stiles had to be extra careful around her -- she had a nose for a lie and she wasn't above grilling a 16 year old kid if it got her the answers she wanted. And it had been more tryinng than he'd expected, coming up with those answers. After all... it was one thing to say he'd been driving around in his Jeep at 3 AM -- it was wholly another to explain why a sixteen year old boy had been out that late alone driving around. Best to keep it simple, something he could remember, Stiles had thought to himself -- he was an accomplished liar by now and that ability often stood him in good stead. It was no different here -- well, except for the part that lying to NTAC might constitute treason for all he knew. Still, treason versus giving up his friends to the government lab rat community? No contest. So, he gave them what he could without giving away things he shouldn't, gave them just enough stereotypical truth to make his story plausible. Of course, they bought it, hook, line and sinker. After all... who wouldn't trust a 16 year old kid? Stiles couldn't help but laugh every time he had that thought -- who wouldn't trust a 16 year old kid? Anyone who had one... and Agent Skouris.

Still, eventually even Agent Skouris seemed satisfied and the questions slowed, the tests stopped... and then the waiting began. It was clear that the government wanted to hold onto them until they figured out what had happened, where they'd come from. It was equally clear that no such answer would be forthcoming from any of the "returnees," as they were now being called. But what do you do with thousands of people who you won't release back to their lives... or who you _can't_ release back to their lives?

Three days later, Stiles had his answer and some doubts as to whether what NTAC was doing was even legal, holding them all here against their will. He'd been tagged, processed and given a number -- #2,118 -- along with the 4,399 other people who had suddenly popped out of nowhere onto that beach with him. And really, that perfectly round number was just insult added to injury. 4400 people? You couldn't tell him that with a number that perfect there hadn't been some kind of intelligence behind all of this. Coincidences that big are never coincidences.

Stiles had been issued his very own wardrobe of hideous mustard tan clothing -- seriously, it was _all_ mustard tan and that was a color so hideous that Stiles hadn't even realized it existed and would have been perfectly happy continuing to never know it existed -- and after much begging and pleading, he'd been given back his cell phone along with an admonition that he wouldn't be able to use it. He bit back telling the officer, "Duh," by the skin of his teeth when it was handed over. It was pretty obvious that he wasn't going to get any reception in a secret government quarantine bunker, but sassing the people who were actually cutting him a break wouldn't earn him any favors. So, communications would be strictly monitored -- which _sucked_... but wasn't exactly unexpected. Stiles just wished that Scott had responded to his text before he'd been shoved into this cell phone dead zone with the rest of the returnees.

With a heavy sigh, Stiles shifted his grip on his government-issued belongings and carted them over to his very own cot with its very own trunk at the foot -- a cot and trunk that were identical to the hundreds of other cots in this warehouse-like room. NTAC had given up on trying to keep them all separated -- there just wasn't the space -- but they were at least being split into groups of 500 or so. That would make things a bit less crowded than it could have been... but it would also make it that much more likely that Stiles would never find the only two people he sort of knew. He was more disappointed by that than he could easily explain.

Stiles dropped his belongings into his trunk, flopped down onto his bed and pulled out his phone, fingers automatically moving to open the text program. It wasn't until after he'd typed, "Hey, man, sorry I never texted again the other night, but you are not going to BELIEVE what's been going on," that his brain caught up with his fingers and stopped him from hitting send.

No signal. Right. Fuck.

Canceling the text, he sat up and surveyed the room. People were milling around, claiming beds according to their numbers. Stiles thought he recognized a few of them from that first night on the beach, but it was hard to tell with everyone wearing the same hideous clothing. He recognized a few others from having run into them during the debriefing process, but most of his new roommates were a complete unknown to him and in the mood he was in he just wasn't ready to deal with it. Rolling over, Stiles tucked his face into his government issue pillow, tucked his cell phone into the crook of his neck for reassurance and drifted off into an uneasy but much needed nap.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Stiles awoke feeling more tired and out of sorts than he had when he'd gone to sleep. Napping in the middle of the day always left him feeling groggy and it was even worse in here. The artificial lighting made it impossible to tell what time of day it truly was and it washed everything and everyone out into the same shades of mustard tan and yellow that made up their clothing. Stiles hated it already and he'd been here less than a day. He checked his phone automatically, cursed when there was still no signal and worse, no text from Scott. Shoving the phone into his back pocket, Stiles decided to make his way into the room and see if he couldn't find a familiar face, or at least feel out what the hierarchy here was going to be like. It looked like he was going to be here for awhile, so he was going to have to make the best of it.

Stiles' first circuit of the room at least gave him an idea of the general layout. The beds were sectioned off on one side of the room, hastily erected partitions sectioning them further into small room-like areas with ten beds to a "room." At least it was no worse than summer camp, that way. Then again... whenever Stiles had been to summer camp, Scott had been with him.

Swallowing the melancholy that thought produced, Stiles turned back to his survey of the room. The other half of the room was devoted to dining tables and social areas... which was just exactly what it sounded like it should be. There were a few ping pong tables and decks of cards, but other than a few TVs with selections of DVDs and gaming systems that Stiles was fair drooling to get his hands on after three days of living low tech, it was like a prison common room -- nothing else but tables and chairs. Stiles supposed he should be grateful they'd even been given this much, but he really wasn't in a gracious mood. Past the dining tables there was a row of cubicles -- like the kind that prisoners go into in the movies to chat with their visitors. There was to be no contact between the returnees and the people who might visit them from the other side of the glass... but worse, the only people who came to visit were NTAC. No family. No friends. And after three days, Stiles was starting to get a little frantic to find a way to let his father and Scott know that he was OK.

That was the idea, though, Stiles supposed. No contact. No contamination.

Quarantine.

Stiles was already starting to hate the word.

Once he'd finished making his survey of the room, Stiles took stock of the various groups at the tables. The room hadn't filled up, yet, and the hundred people who were already assigned to this bunker were dwarfed by the sheer size of the space. They huddled together at the tables, speaking in hushed whispers, eyes darting around in quick, nervous glances every time someone new walked by.

Well, Stiles was used to odd glances when he walked into a room -- he was a teenager and an awkward one, at that. This was no worse than the school lunchroom. Actually, considering that occasionally one of the glances tossed his way was a friendly one, it was a damned sight better than the school lunchroom. So. Make the best of it. Stiles needed information. That meant he'd just have to take a few chances. Reminding himself firmly that this _wasn't_ the school cafeteria, when the next friendly glance passed his way, Stiles took it for the invitation it was and, with a wide smile firmly in place, walked over, sat down and started talking.

* * *

When they called 30 minutes until lights out, Stiles' head was reeling and he was more than glad of the break. He'd talked to as many people as he could stand talking to and he hadn't liked the answers he'd gotten. A lead weight had formed in the pit of his stomach as he considered the potential ramifications of his theory, but he ignored it as best he could. There was nothing he could do about it in any case, so there was no point dwelling on it.

Instead, Stiles made his way back to his sleeping area and his cot, still chewing over his discoveries. The last of the people assigned to this quarantine facility were trickling in and finding their bunks and it made it a bit difficult to get where he needed to go. He was starting to feel as cornered as he had on the beach, but before he had a chance to truly work himself up, an amused -- and _familiar_ \-- voice spoke up from the direction of his bunk and said, "Stiles Stilinski, right? I told you it would be OK! How you doin', man? And by the way... 'Stiles Stilinski'? Your parents must have had it in for you young, huh?"

Stiles spun around to face his bed, lips stretching into a wide grin as he took in the equally mustard tan clad form settling onto the cot next to his. He laughed, "Dude. It's a nickname -- Stilinkski... Stiles. Right?" He walked over and perched on the edge of his cot across from Shawn, "Man. Talk about a sight for sore eyes, though -- this was starting to feel like middle school, all over again, with the not knowing anyone and the no one caring to know me and..." He trailed off, then just said, "It's good to see a friendly face."

Shawn smiled back at him, reached out to pat his shoulder before turning to put his things in his own trunk, "You're not kidding. This whole thing is freaking me out. Have they told _you_ anything?"

Stiles shook his head, leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees. Within seconds, he was chewing on his thumbnail, the opposite leg bouncing nervously beneath him. Shawn lifted an eyebrow at that, but didn't say a word about it, just gave Stiles the time he needed to get his thoughts in order and get the words out.

Eventually Stiles said, "None of the official people have said anything... but something's really wrong here. I mean... they're going to a lot of trouble to keep us from contacting anyone from the outside, but they're not keeping us from talking to each other, anymore, right?" When Shawn nodded, Stiles continued, "I spent some time talking to people today while we were all getting settled in. I talked to one guy who thinks it's December, a little girl this morning who thinks it's March."

Shawn frowned as he moved to sit on his own bed across from Stiles, "Well, that's weird."

"I know, right? Because it's June."

Shawn's frowned deepened, "Wait. No, it's not. It's April."

Stiles grinned and pointed straight at Shawn, "Exactly."

Shawn hung his head and made a noise of frustation, "Has anyone ever mentioned that you are not a very easy guy to follow in conversation?"

Stiles laughed, "Scott used to, but given time, I'm told you get used to it." He waved off Shawn's confusion, then and continued, "Look, here's the thing -- someone obviously tampered with our memories, Shawn -- or tampered with _something_ \-- because none of this adds up. The last thing I remember, I was driving home. It was late at night -- in June -- and this ball of light appeared in the sky and the next thing I know... I'm on that beach with all of you. The little girl was picking flowers for her parents and it was the middle of the day and raining. She's from California, just like me, but Shawn... **argh**. I'm explaining this badly."

When Shawn waved him to continue, Stiles stood up, started pacing, "Have you really talked to anyone over the last few days? If we all thought it was a different month, that would be weird enough, but we don't all just think it's different months, Shawn. We think it's different _years_."

Shawn slowly stood, eyes wide, "You're not kidding, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not. Fuck, do I wish I was, though. You have no idea how crazy this has been driving me today and how glad I am that there's finally someone here I can _talk_ to about it." Stiles shook his head, "OK, look. Just... hear me out, OK?" When Shawn nodded, Stiles shot him a brief smile then resumed his pacing, lengthened the area he was pacing in, "The last thing I remember, it was June 18, 2012. December guy thinks it's 2004 and the girl, Maia... she remembers it being March 3, **1946** , Shawn. How is that even fucking possible?"

Shawn reached out a hand, caught Stiles as he went past, relief written on his face, "June 18, 2012? That's what you said?" Stiles nodded but before he could open his mouth to answer, Shawn slumped, "April 22, 2012." He looked up, smile widening, "That's not so bad, right? I can't have missed much in two months, right? _Did_ I even miss anything in the last two months?"

"Uh..." Stiles paused, searching his brain for a non-werewolf related event that he could share. It was harder to come up with one than he'd thought it would be. His preoccupation with Scott's condition had kept Stiles from following much of anything going on outside of Beacon Hills for a while, now. After a few minutes of thinking, he snapped his fingers and said, "Oh, hey! I know one cool thing that happened last month! Obama finally declared a position on gay marriage."

Shawn blinked but rolled with it, "For?"

"Pfft. Of course, for," Stiles said, "He's a Democrat and he wants to get reelected. He's not an idiot. Still... cool. Right?"

Shawn smiled, "Right. It's all good."

Stiles shook off Shawn's hands and resumed pacing. Eventually, slowly, with great reluctance he said, "Thing is, Shawn... I'm starting to think I missed more than the few seconds it felt like I did. And I don't think you only missed two months, either. I think we _all_ missed more time than we thought we did. I don't know how much... but I think it's been months, maybe a year, maybe more -- for both of us. I talked to a guy earlier today who thought it was February of 2014." He sat down on his bed, clamped his hands between his knees. His next words were said in a harsh whisper, "How do we know that we won't find someone out there who's from as far in the future of us as we are from Maia?"

Shawn sat down across from him, put a hand on his knee and said, "We won't." He sounded so certain that Stiles had to look up. Shawn's eyes showed just as much certainty as his voice had displayed. He said, "I refuse to believe that in the year 2078, those suits are still in style and people are still carrying iPhone 4s. It's not possible. I'll give you the one or two years, but much more than that? Stiles, not enough has changed. So, that's pretty unlikely. Stop stressing about it."

Stiles took a deep breath, let it back out. At Shawn's raised eyebrow, Stiles offered him a wan smile, "You're right. Of course, you're right. Still, though... two years..." Stiles hung his head further, let out a bitter laugh, "If it's been two years, most of my friends will be graduating high school. They'll be older than me, now." He froze, slowly looked up, eyes widened in horror, "Two years... Oh my G-d. My _dad_." Before Shawn could do anything to prevent it, Stiles was off his cot and pushing his way through the crowds of people moving in the other direction to get to one of the booths where they could talk to the people from NTAC.

Shawn reached him before he'd made it halfway, caught his elbow and said, "Stiles! Jesus, man, you gotta slow down. We're all in the same boat." When Stiles tried to get around him, Shawn tightened his hold and said, "Stiles, I know these people. My uncle works for NTAC. You're not going to get anything accomplished by causing a ruckus ten minutes before lights out on the first night, OK? Come on. Let's go back to our cots. We'll figure this out. I'm sure once my uncle finds out I'm here, he'll come talk to me, tell me what's going on. Until then... just chill, OK?"

Stiles shook off Shawn's restraining hands and just stood there, head down for a moment before straightening. "Right. I can do that." He took a deep breath, "I can do that." A heartbeat later he said emphatically, "Fuck. Dude, I hate this. I really don't do well with forced inactivity, especially when there is _major_ conspiracy theory, alien abduction shit going down around my ears."

A short laugh in answer, "Yeah, I can see that." Shawn lifted a hand, lightly punched Stiles in the shoulder. When Stiles looked at him, Shawn said, "How about we see if we can sneak our way into the video games they brought in once they turn out the lights? If we play with headsets, and keep the noise down, I doubt anyone'll notice... and in two years, there _have_ to have been some sweet improvements in that arena. What do you say?"

Stiles looked back towards the wall of communication booths for a moment, as though he might change his mind, but Shawn relaxed when Stiles briefly closed his eyes, allowed himself to be distracted from his worry. Stiles' shoulders went down, his head went up and he turned towards the video game corner with its large flat screen TVs with a look that Shawn could only describe as predatory. Stiles rubbed his hands together and cackled gleefully, "I say you're on, man... and you have _no_ idea what you're getting into."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**
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>  
> 
> For anyone who _is_ familiar with or found their way here via The 4400... Welcome! :D Anyway, you may have noticed that I've taken a few liberties. To make the timelines work for plans I have later down the line, I've shifted the 4400 canon timeline 10 years in the future. Also, as a result, Shawn was missing for two years instead of three. Both he and Stiles are 16 and at the end of their sophomore year of high school when they're taken. It's academic, really, but I'm a detail hound and in case any of you are, too... there you go. ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> _Questions, comments, papaya?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott lurched forward over the desk, grabbed the sheriff by his shoulders and shook him once, hard, "Why do you think I've put up with your abuse for the last two years, huh?" At the older man's silence, Scott shook him again, "You're all I have left of him! You're all I have left of him and you were in pain and there was nothing I could do. I could have stopped you at any time, but letting you beat the crap out of me was the only thing I had to offer that might make you feel better. This," Scott grabbed the phone back out of the sheriff's hands unlocked it and turned it back to him, "This is not about revenge, Sheriff. This is... fuck, I don't know what this is. Maybe... maybe this means nothing. Maybe it's what you said -- a cruel trick that someone's playing on us. But, maybe, just maybe, it's actually what it looks like. Maybe it's Stiles reaching out to us to let us know he's OK. **Maybe we can find him.** "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _March 25, 2013:_** Wow. I did not intend to take so long between chapters when I decided to post this as a WIP. I beg derailment into the phenomenon of Being Human. Sorry about that. -.-;;; Anyway, Chapter 3 finally has things starting to come together for our Teen Wolf gang and a glimmer of hope begins to shine in the darkness. (And if that wasn't hokey enough for you, just ask -- I'm sure I can do better. ^_~)
> 
> Again, assuming that most of you have made your way here via Teen Wolf, if you're interested in a quick, less than three minute crash course in the 4400 canon... check out [this video](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/40257860963/the-4400-season-2-premiere-ad-its-for-the). It's the season 2 promo, but it serves as a wonderful summary for the entire show. ^_^ Enjoy!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/46299376104/our-place-in-time-14894-words-by-renee-chan)

Allison was not happy. She hadn't been happy in a long time, in what seemed like forever, but today... today it had been worse. For a moment, just a brief moment, she'd thought that something in her life was getting back on track. She and Lydia had talked, really talked, for the first time in months. They'd laughed, they'd smiled, they'd had a real conversation. And for just that one moment, Allison had felt special again, wanted again... normal, again. It could have stopped there. If they'd never seen each other again, never spoken to each other again, if today had been all they'd ever have, then Allison would have been content with it, would have been OK with letting the rest of it go. But it hadn't stopped there -- at laughter and joy and innocent teenaged fun.

No. Of course, it hadn't stopped there. An Argent could never be a normal teenager. She couldn't have the things that a normal teenager had -- like friendships. She couldn't have the one thing she wanted most. Her family had seen to that.

Her family. Allison's lip curled as she stalked up the walkway to her house and pushed open the door. Her family. Her Aunt Kate was dead, her mother was dead, her grandfather as good as and good riddance to him. Allison barely had any family left. It was only she and her father, now. There was no one else in their broken remnant of what had been a wonderful life.

And her father? An Argent man will always defer to the matriarch of the family. And, like it or not, Allison was it for them, now. Her father was only her father to a point. Beyond that point? He was a soldier, like any other, and she his commander. It was easier that way, if unfair... to both of them. He tried, sometimes, tried to take that responsibility back off of her shoulders, but it was easier for her like this. It was easier to be a general than a teenager. A general didn't need friends, didn't need to listen to her weaker emotions. A general got the job done.

Allison's father was in the dining room when she walked through the door, papers spread out on the table. She didn't know what he was working on, didn't care, either, as long as it kept him occupied for a time. She needed to be alone, needed to excise the festering wound her meeting with Lydia had left. Her father looked up as Allison breezed past him, but at the look on her face, he held back, didn't say a word. That was good. Today, Allison wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the song of her bowstring, to forget that she'd ever had a life outside of this war. Because the reminder of this afternoon, of what could have been, was too painful.

She stepped out into the backyard to her targets, the only real friends she had, anymore. They sat silent, waiting for her to give them purpose, always there when she needed them, no questions asked... always ready to bear the wounds she could not. She raised her bow, notched an arrow... and let it fly.

_Raise the bow. Notch the arrow. Hit the target._

Paint a human face on the target in your mind. 

_Raise the bow. Notch the arrow. Hit the target._

Let the arrow be your answer to the pain.

_Raise the bow. Notch the arrow. Hit the target._

It was better that way.

_Raise the bow. Notch the arrow. Hit the target._

It wasn't until the sun had begun to set, wasn't until the air took on an edge of chill, that Allison felt ready to lower her shaking arms, to put down her bow. She was exhausted and no closer to exorcizing the pain that had brought her out here than she had been when she first blew through the door.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts, brought her attention to the man now standing behind her. Her father said, "I can make dinner, if you've worked up an appetite... or we can talk first, if you like."

As far as Allison was concerned, she'd done enough talking. She'd done enough laughing. She'd done enough of everything. She collected her arrows, unstrung her bow and moved to push past her father into the house. This time, however, he didn't let her go so easily, caught her in his arms and pulled her stiffened frame close. He said, "I know you think you have to be the perfect soldier, Allison. I know you think you don't have the right to need the things a person needs. But, I am still your father and that isn't going to change. I wish you would tell me what's bothering you."

"I..." Allison's voice cracked and to her shame, one fat tear rolled down her cheek. It was soon joined by another... and another. Between the tears, she managed to get it out, the thorn that had driven her out here as soon as she'd gotten home, "She didn't really want to be with me. She didn't want to be friends. She just... she just wanted to pump me for information." Her father's arms tightening around her gave her the strength to say more, "I almost didn't figure it out. Lydia's _good_ , Dad. She's always been good. But in the end... in the end, I knew. She doesn't care about me. _None_ of them care about me. They don't trust me. They don't trust any of us."

Her father shook his head as he puzzled out Allison's words. Finally he said softly, "They were fishing for information about Gerard, again?"

Allison nodded frantically against his chest, finally said, "They think... I think that they think he's the one who took Stiles."

Her father's answer was swift and to the point, "He wouldn't have. He wouldn't. Even before-- even before."

Allison let a hysteria-tinged laugh be her answer, "Dad... I know you loved him -- he's your father and I don't blame you for that -- but I'm not sure you ever really knew him. He _did_ take Stiles. Not this time, but the first time. That night he went missing -- earlier... he took him as a warning to Scott to back off." Allison straightened, eased out of her father's embrace and folded her arms across her chest. "He hurt him, too. He told me, bragged about it, even. I think... I think that if things had gone differently that night, he might have done worse than he did. He never got the chance, thank G-d, but this... how can I ever convince them that he had nothing to do with this? That he _couldn't_ have had anything to do with it? How on Earth can I get them to trust me enough to accept my word and back off?"

Her father sighed, "I don't know, Allison. I guess we'll just have to hope that Stiles will turn up someday, that someone will find him... because I have a feeling that they'll only believe Gerard wasn't involved if they hear it straight from Stiles."

He didn't have to tell her how unlikely that was. He didn't have to say that they were long past the window of opportunity of tracking down Stiles' kidnapper -- two years past. He didn't have to say that the odds of finding Stiles alive by now were slim to none... and slim was in the process of packing his bags and heading out the door -- if he hadn't already snuck past them and gone. She already knew.

Softly, hesitating, Allison's father offered, "We could go. Move away from here. There are plenty of other towns in which we'd be welcome, sweetheart. We don't have to stay." 

She shook her head. There were reasons to leave, all right, reasons aplenty... but Allison was no quitter. They'd built a life for themselves here -- a good life, a stable life... a life free of their never-ending war, and Allison wouldn't tear her father away from that life unless she had no choice. Her mother would want that, would want him to have this second chance to be happy. Allison had time, had options, far more than he did. And she was tired of running. So, she pulled out her best smile and tightened her arm around her father's waist, "I don't suppose any of those papers on the table had to do with dinner, did they?"

Her father smiled as he squeezed her back, dropped a gentle kiss on top of her head, "I thought we might go out, tonight. Just you and me. There's a new French place that opened up down on Main Street that looks promising..."

Allison's smile widened, her laughter in response feeling almost real, "Just so long as you don't try to feed me snails, again, I'm game to try."

Her father laughed along with her, then treated her to a diatribe of decent length on the virtues of escargot that lasted all the way through the house, out to the car and halfway to the restaurant. And for just a moment, it felt like things had gone back to normal. Allison fought off a chill. She didn't trust normal -- not anymore -- but for her father's sake... for tonight, she would try.

* * *

Derek sank slowly down into the den couch and allowed his eyes to slide closed. He should have known. He should have remembered that the more twisted and convoluted a plan, the more likely it was that it would fail. Lydia had certainly spoken to Allison. That much had gone according to plan. But that was when it all broke down. Allison had caught on to her, had reacted badly, clammed up and refused to speak another word. Worse than that, though, was how Lydia had described the look on her face when they'd finished speaking.

Heartbroken.

Like the rest of them, Allison Argent had had a very difficult time readjusting these last two years. Unlike the rest of them, she'd had to do it with no one but her father for support. None of them had considered how she would feel if she found out the purpose for this contact. None of them had considered that underneath her tough exterior, she was in just as much pain as the rest of them, and was possibly even more lonely. None of them had thought, at all. And now, they'd alienated their only accessible route for inside information on the Argents, they'd alienated an ally and worse... they'd hurt a friend. It was unacceptable.

Scott had been all for going after her, attacking her in her home, forcing her to tell them where Gerard was keeping Stiles. Derek had restrained him from doing anything so foolish... barely. He'd retreated up the stairs, snarled away all offers of company and spent the last hour taking out his rage on a punching bag. The rhythmic thumps of Scott's fists -- bare, not even taped, from the sounds they made impacting the leather -- had become almost soothing. As long as Scott was taking out his anger on a punching bag, he wasn't elsewhere taking it out on a human being.

So, when another sound interrupted that steady thumping, the resulting silence was deafening... and worrying. A heartbeat later, when the actual sound which had interrupted Scott's workout finally penetrating Derek's stress-numbed brain, though, he almost couldn't process it. He listened for it to come again, ears straining against the silence, and when it did... he didn't believe it. Derek launched himself off the couch, took the stairs two at a time to get up to Scott's room, then froze in the doorway.

For a moment, just a moment, it was like stepping back in time. Gone was the angry tension that usually swirled around Scott like a second aura. Gone was the flashing red in his eyes that never seemed to fade completely. Gone was his alpha confidence. In its place was fear, doubt... uncertainty. For a moment, he looked just as young as he had when Peter had first bitten him. His face was drained of color and his hand was shaking around the object in his hand -- the object that had emitted the noise... his cell phone.

Derek took another step into the room, afraid to talk, afraid to breathe, afraid to announce his presence in any way... but desperately needing to know. He said, "Scott... was that... I thought I heard...?"

Wordlessly, Scott handed the phone over and turned away, hands clenched in his hair, bloody knuckles almost white from the tension. Derek looked down at the phone in his hand, the phone which had moments ago been trilling out the Batman theme -- Stiles' special text ring that Scott had never had the heart to change -- and his own face drained of color, as well.

\--DUDE. You are NOT going to believe what just happened to me. I know you and Allison are probably busy, uh... "making up," but... call me?--

"What... Scott, what the hell is this?" was the best Derek could manage in response to what he'd read.

Scott shook his head, dropped his arms to wrap around himself and started up a low, keening cry. Derek stepped closer, drawn in by the sound of a packmate in pain. He wasn't the only one. Peter found his way up from downstairs, Jackson and Lydia trailing behind him. Scott's quiet keening started to ramp up in volume, became a whimpering cry, then a full-throated howl of grief. Isaac and Erica were out patrolling the woods, but Derek figured it wouldn't be long before they realized that that howl couldn't mean anything good and joined them to find out what. And that was the question, wasn't it?

Giving the men around her a disgusted look for their inaction, Lydia stepped up and pulled Scott's tense form into her arms. Seconds later, that desperate lonely howling shifted to become very human sobs as Scott pulled Lydia close and hid his head in her neck. Wordlessly, Derek passed the phone around to the others so they could read the screen. Jackson was the one who voiced the question on everyone's mind, "What the _hell_ does this mean?"

Peter sighed from the doorway, "There's only one way to find out."

Derek met his Uncle's eyes, grim knowledge in his own, "We have to talk to the Sheriff."

"We have to talk to the Sheriff," Peter echoed. Then he snorted and rolled his eyes, "And given dear Scott's track record with those conversations, won't _that_ be fun?"

In the end, it was decided that Derek and Lydia would go with Scott to the precinct for moral support -- and for protection. They were not going to leave Scott to face Stiles' father alone, not when this new evidence was so volatile. The possibilities were too numerous for what this could mean. It could be as simple as an old text having been hung up in the system finally being delivered... two years too late. It could be Stiles' kidnapper finally deciding to use his victim's phone to mess around with their heads for fun.

...it could be Stiles. But, why wait two years to contact them if that were true?

Either way, there were things they needed to know before deciding how to respond to that message and the Sheriff was the only one stood a chance of giving them those answers.

* * *

"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here, McCall. A _lot_ of fucking nerve."

Scott had been expecting the Sheriff to roar at them, to yell and scream, maybe even froth at the mouth a little. Scott would have. That much anger... Scott wouldn't have been able to keep it contained. So, the harsh, biting whisper of rage that the sheriff was uttering was that much more terrifying. He fought not to fall into the same pattern he did whenever he encountered Stiles' father, forced himself to stay upright, not to hunch over and take this new form of beating, forced himself to answer back. Stiles would want that, would want his father to know...

"I got a text today... from Stiles' phone number. I couldn't... Sheriff Stilinski, I couldn't just keep that to myself," Scott said, words tumbling over each other as he struggled to get them out, to meet the Sheriff's eyes as he did it.

The Sheriff half-raised out of his desk chair, eyes boring holes into Scott's as he said slowly and deliberately, "What. Did. You. Say?"

Scott winced, tried to explain himself further, then finally gave up and handed over his phone, let the Sheriff read the text for himself. He watched as the older man slowly folded back into his seat, cradling the phone with its precious message in his hands like it were a newborn child. To Scott's horror, a single tear slipped unheeded down the Sheriff's cheek, then another... and another. He didn't make a sound, seemed, in fact, completely unaware that he was crying. Eventually he grated out, "If you were looking for revenge, McCall... you couldn't have planned it better if you tried. You want me to back off? Fine. You want me to apologize? I'm sorry. You want to hurt me?" His voice trailed off into quiet bitterness, "...you've got that, too. Now, get the _fuck_ out of my office."

Scott gaped at him for a moment, the pain all but rolling off the man finally helping Scott push away the shame that had been paralyzing him around his best friend's father for the last two years. He stepped forward, slapped his hands on the desk and growled out, "You think this is a _trick_? Of all the... damn it! Of all the things I could do to try to even things between us, you think I'd chose _this_?" 

Scott lurched forward over the desk, grabbed the sheriff by his shoulders and shook him once, hard, "Why do you think I've put up with your abuse for the last two years, huh?" At the older man's silence, Scott shook him again, "You're all I have left of him! You're all I have left of him and you were in pain and there was nothing I could do. I could have stopped you at any time, but letting you beat the crap out of me was the only thing I had to offer that might make you feel better. This," Scott grabbed the phone back out of the sheriff's hands unlocked it and turned it back to him, "This is not about revenge, Sheriff. This is... fuck, I don't know what this is. Maybe... maybe this means nothing. Maybe it's what you said -- a cruel trick that someone's playing on us. But, maybe, just maybe, it's actually what it looks like. Maybe it's Stiles reaching out to us to let us know he's OK. **Maybe we can find him.** "

Scott handed the phone back over and let go, straightened back up. His voice took on a gentler tone, pleading, "But I can't do it without you. I need your help. If... if it might get Stiles back... isn't that worth letting a few bygones be bygones? Isn't that worth trying to work with each other?"

Sheriff Stilinski pulled the phone closer, read that text, again... and again... and again. The different emotions that played across his face gave Scott barely a clue as to what he might be thinking or what conclusion he was reaching, but he held his peace. Finally, the sheriff cleared his throat and offered, "I never had his cell phone service turned off. I... I kept paying the bill, every month, thought that maybe someday he'd find a way to use it to let me know where he is." He looked up, then, an almost desperate hope warring with the long-seated despair in his eyes, "Scott... can I trust this? Can I trust you?"

Scott swallowed once, finally said, "You can trust that I love your son. You can trust that I want him back -- that I _need_ him back. You can trust that I will do anything and everything I can to bring him home." He met the sheriff's gaze, then, his own turning dark, almost sinister as he said, " _Use me_ , Sheriff. Use me however you need to... just get him back."

Sheriff Stilinski put one hand on his desk, pushed himself up out of his seat, then raised that hand to Scott. As Scott took it, gave it one firm shake, the sheriff said, "That's a deal, Scott. Whatever it takes... we'll get him back. And G-d help anyone who gets in the way."

Everyone in the room was so focused on the drama being enacted between Scott and the sheriff that they completely missed Deputy Warren waving at them from the other side of the glass. What they didn't miss -- what they _couldn't_ miss -- was when a minute later, the phone in the sheriff's hand and the phone on his desk started shrieking out their ringtones. The sheriff instinctively hit the answer button without even checking the caller ID, while Lydia lunged for the phone on his desk.

After the initial scurry to answer the phones died down, and both were able to make sense of who was on the other end, the sheriff passed Scott's phone back to him with a gruff, "It's your mother," and Lydia arched an eyebrow and asked the sheriff why on Earth Christ Argent would be calling him. Neither deigned to answer and silence fell as they turned their attention to the two people on the other ends of the line.

Many tense moments later, both Scott and the sheriff's faces drained of any remaining color they had left and they both lunged for the TV remote. Scott snarled at the hand in his way and to his utter shock, the sheriff snarled right back. Derek winced, started rubbing at his temples and muttering that this had been a terrible idea. Lydia patted him on the shoulder, winced in sympathy. Finally Scott threw up his hands and let the Sheriff have his remote to turn on the TV.

A moment later it became painfully obvious why the two men had reacted so strongly. The news... this news was staggering. Life changing.

The news had apparently been broadcasting information about a meteor which had shifted its course just enough to be an impact risk to the Earth. They'd ignored it, too wrapped up in their own problems to give it much thought. Besides, scientists were alarmists. They predicted these things all the time and nothing ever came of them. Only this meteor... it was no meteor. Apparently it had slowed, changed course again, and came to a stop near Mt. Rainier in Washington. And what had come from that meteor... There were hundreds of people -- maybe even thousands -- on that beach. But the reason for those phone calls, the reason for the sudden panic... Jesus Fucking H. Christ.

Scott stepped forward, a pained whimper catching in his throat, hand reaching out to touch the screen, to trace the outline of one, single figure. He was upright, he was flailing around trying not to knock into the people around him and failing miserably... and he was wearing the same clothes and the same pattern of bruises he'd been when they'd last seen him two years ago. There was no mistaking who was standing on that beach...

_Stiles._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What, on Earth, could this mean? They'd been watching the news all day, watching the bright spot of that meteor coming closer and closer and closer... keeping their pack close as though that might somehow protect them from the impending disaster. Boyd hadn't been on the schedule for his internship that night, but NTAC had called him in, regardless. He'd been on site when the "meteor" began its change of trajectory, its slow-down. He'd been there when they discovered what had popped out of that ball of light. And though the other boy hadn't seen him behind the wall of armored soldiers and police, Boyd had seen Stiles. First hand. No question._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _June 2, 2013:_** Sorry for letting this story languish, guys! I'm hoping that with Season 3 of TW starting up tomorrow (XD XD XD XD) that I'll be remotivated to work on it more regularly. In the meantime, thank Mystiksnake over at ff.net, for prodding me into getting this chapter posted. ^_^
> 
> Happy birthday, Mystiksnake!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/52008739149/our-place-in-time-19567-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> * * *

"Holy fuckballs, Batman. What the hell does _this_ mean?"

Boyd turned to the right to meet the gaze of the young man who had spoken. Nick had been the first to approach him when he'd come to Washington State. Omega -- Boyd could smell it on him. He'd run alone for too long by the look in his eyes. Wary, far from home -- he'd been drawn in by Boyd's kind eyes, he'd said. That and the size of his biceps. Boyd had gone unnoticed in the crowd for so long, been overshadowed by those who were stronger, faster, more popular, that the attention had made him uncomfortable at first. Nick was strong-willed, he was acerbic, he spoke his mind. All the time. Whether or not it was convenient. Especially if it wasn't convenient. He reminded Boyd a bit of Stiles. And, he couldn't deny the fact that they fit, somehow. Nick was his. He was pack.

And, as always, convenient or not, Nick had an excellent question. What _did_ this mean? They'd been watching the news all day, watching the bright spot of that meteor coming closer and closer and closer... keeping their pack close as though that might somehow protect them from the impending disaster. Boyd hadn't been on the schedule for his internship that night, but NTAC had called him in, regardless. He'd been on site when the "meteor" began its change of trajectory, its slow-down. He'd been there when they discovered what had popped out of that ball of light. And though the other boy hadn't seen him behind the wall of armored soldiers and police, Boyd had seen Stiles. First hand. No question.

An irritated voice spoke up from behind Boyd, "Ay, Dios mio! What it means is that a whole mess of trouble is about to crash down on our heads. What else do you need to know, Nicholas?"

Nick flipped up a finger in Nina's direction and said, "Did I ask you? No. I asked Vernon."

Nina raised an eyebrow, reached out and grabbed the raised finger, applying just enough pressure that Nick winced and quickly pulled it back when she let go. "I've told you before, Nicholas. You keep offering me that finger and some day I will take it from you."

Before Nick could open his mouth to irritate his second in command any further, Boyd held up a hand and said, "Enough. Nina's right. This is going to mean trouble and not just for the obvious reasons." Turning towards the older woman, he offered up this explanation: "I know one of the returnees."

"Do you, now?" Nina came around the couch to sit across from the two younger werewolves. She steepled her fingers in front of herself and said, "Well, that does potentially present a problem. A friend or an enemy?"

The rest of the pack, though they'd been scattered around the first floor of Nina's home, perked up at that, drew closer. One or two began muttering, others began breathing out low growls at the thought of a threat encroaching on their territory. 

Boyd dispelled the rumbling with one look -- a soft smile, a wry smile... a fond smile, "A friend. Definitely a friend. One I thought I'd never see, again." Nina cleared her throat, neatly refocusing the pack's attention on herself, "Vernon, I don't mean to tell you how to run your territory. When I stepped down as alpha, I did so willingly -- knowing who you are, believing in you. I still believe in you. I still follow you. But, that isn't enough. This situation is strange enough without you choosing now to be cryptic."

Boyd rose from the couch, walked over to the front windows to look out. People were still out in the streets, milling around, discussing the near tragedy and the astonishing news that had followed it. He could hear them -- excited, fearful, trembling on the edge of an understanding so different than any they'd known that they were unwilling to fully embrace it just yet. And Stiles was somehow a part of it. He turned back to his pack, braced himself against the window ledge and said, "Stiles' return isn't the problem. The problem is that I'm not the only friend he has who's been missing him these last two years and they'll be beating down our door to set up camp here until NTAC lets the returnees out of quarantine."

Sighing, Boyd crossed his arms over his chest, "As a friend, I want to help them, to let them be as close as they need to be to reassure themselves that Stiles is all right, that he's really home." He shook his head, "But as your alpha, I don't want them anywhere near my territory. They're unstable and that makes them dangerous... and I've fought hard -- we all have -- to make this a safe place for our pack. I don't want to lose that because I never learned to say no to my friends."

Nick turned his body to lean on the couch arm and smiled knowingly, "Oooooooooh, I get it. These friends of yours... you're talking about the Beacon Hills pack." He gave a dramatic shudder. "Those are some messed up puppies you come from down in California, Vernon." He paused in his dramatics just long enough to slant a glance up at Boyd through the light brown fringe of his hair, "But, not for nothing, they're sexy as all get out."

Boyd didn't even have to say a word. Alexis, silent until now, reached out and smacked Nick across the back of the head. When Nick turned to protest his rough treatment, she just raised one dark eyebrow and said, "You really don't want to do that, Nick. My grandmother isn't the only one who finds you obnoxious."

While the rest of the pack enjoyed a good chuckle at the familiar sniping between Nina's granddaughter and Nick, Boyd took the opportunity to step out of the room. He needed a little space to clear his head. Nina wasn't wrong. This was a whole hornet's nest worth of problems about to set up roost on his doorstep and he had to be prepared. He had to prepare his pack. Most importantly, he had to know ahead of time where his limits were... what he wouldn't give up. Because if he didn't have those firmly set, Derek and Scott would trample all over him.

Before he'd had a chance to formulate even a fraction of his thoughts into some form of order, however, Nina stalked into the kitchen after him. One of Boyd's professors his freshman year at WSU, and a former FBI agent, Nina didn't miss much. She'd known what he was the moment he stepped into her classroom. She'd seen the way Nick hovered around him, the way he drew in Ryan -- another freshman omega -- with equal ease. Even some of her own betas had put in appearances to feel him out. Still, she'd waited for him to come to her, patient as always, in stalking her prey. It had taken him less than a week to decide they needed to set up a meeting. He wanted no trouble. He was a visitor, only. He had made it clear that he would be granting protection to those with no pack who had sought him out, already, but that he had no designs on her territory and didn't want his presence misconstrued.

Nina had accepted that, had let Boyd go without molestation. They'd coexisted for months, Boyd's pack and Nina's, and he had kept his word. After the ridiculous power struggles he'd suffered through in Beacon Hills, Boyd had no desire to create that kind of situation in Olympia. He didn't want any new enemies -- thanks to his old life, he already had more than his fair share. Unfortunately, such was the way of the wolf. Two packs could not coexist in one territory indefinitely. It was not their way. And Professor Herrera was not one to let a problem brew in her backyard when she could dispel it at its start. She had led her pack for many years. It was a strong pack, respected. She had no desire to see that legacy destroyed.

After two months of peace, she had come to Boyd in the night, calmly explained that the university could not support two packs for long. It was too dangerous for both. Other packs in the area were beginning to circle, sensing the potential for a power struggle -- and an opportunity to sweep in and make a grab for their own power when it happened. They needed to make an end to it before someone else did it for them. There could only be one pack -- one alpha. So, she'd stepped forward... and knelt to offer her throat.

Boyd had been mortified by the offer. He respected her, he admired her, he stood to learn a lot from her and he would not tolerate the waste of such a life just because she was a little past her prime and he had told her so, driven to passionate speech and wild gestures as he attempted to talk her out of what seemed to him an attempted suicide. 

And Professor Herrera... she'd laughed in his face.

The offering of a throat, he learned that night, didn't have to be literal. It could be symbolic -- a rite to pass power from one alpha to the next. That was how it was often done among born wolves -- like Derek and Peter... like Nina and Alexis. Once Boyd had understood, he'd accepted her offered throat and gladly. The two packs had become one with Boyd at their head and Nina at his side, a strong beta and second. They'd fought off a few others with delusions of taking them on, but none had come close to threatening what they had built here. 

But, allowing Derek Hale and Scott McCall into their territory? That was a wolf of a whole different color. It wasn't even the power they wielded between them. It was the violence, the lack of control. They wouldn't come here with the intent of ripping his pack apart... but they would do it just the same.

As Boyd opened the refrigerator, ostensibly to look for a drink, Nina took up a position behind him, leaning back on the kitchen counter, hands braced to either side of her, just waiting. She could wait like that, perfectly still, all day if she had to. He'd seen her take on that very pose in a lecture hall of two hundred freshman, too scared out of their wits to speak up, to answer a question. She'd waited them out, and those five minutes had felt like five hours. Boyd had finally broken and given her an answer. She'd been a force to be reckoned with in an interrogation room as an agent and now she was a force to be reckoned with in a classroom. She'd told him once that they weren't so far removed from each other. And just as that first time, Boyd knew he didn't have a chance in hell of out-waiting her this time, either.

Taking his bottle of water to the table, Boyd gestured for Nina to join him, "You obviously have more of an opinion than what you expressed in the living room. I appreciate you getting me alone before you shared it. Go ahead."

Nina came at him aggressively and Boyd instinctively rocked backwards for a moment before leaning back in to meet her charge. She took a seat, leaning forward into Boyd's personal space, eyes still aggressive, a snarl in the back of her voice. "You're not allowing those two into Olympia." As Boyd opened his mouth to talk, she cut him off, said, "I'll fight you if I have to -- take back my position as alpha." She lifted a finger in his direction, straight and pointed, right under his nose, "I may be old enough to be your grandmother, but don't think for a second I can't do it, Vernon Milton Boyd -- or that I won't, if you give me cause."

Boyd had no doubt that she would. He also had no doubt that that was a threat she would attempt to avoid carrying out if she could. She'd come to care for Boyd, for all of his wayward pups, and she was just trying to keep as many of them safe as she could. They wanted the same thing. "Nina-- Professor Herrera, I assure you, I have no plans to do anything of the kind. I know how dangerous they are. They may be my friends and I may want to help them, but Nick had it right -- they are some messed up puppies."

Nina leaned back, a satisfied smirk on her face as she added, "And you don't want them piddling on our carpets any more than I do, is that it?"

Though he pulled a face at the image, Boyd said, "No, I don't." He sighed, dropped his head into his hands, "But whether I want them here or not, they're going to ask to come. They're going to want to see Stiles themselves -- and I can't blame them." He leaned back, met Nina's gaze once again, "You never asked and I never offered... to tell you why it all went so wrong in Beacon Hills." Boyd jabbed a finger in the direction of the TV in the other room and said, " _That_ is why. We'd been through so much already and taking Stiles out of the equation was what finally pulled the linchpin out of what was holding us together. And everything fell apart. None of us ever knew, none of us even guessed, how important he was to our stability until he was gone. If he's back... Nina, that's a chance for them to fix what's wrong down there. And if they can fix it, if they can make a strong healthy pack out of that mess, then they can start taking advantage of the truce they have with the Argents and maybe help bring an end to a centuries long feud that has taken hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives on both sides." He reached out, took Nina's hand in his, and said, "Isn't that worth a little risk?"

Nina held Boyd's hand and his gaze for another moment, then threw her hands over her head and stalked away from the table to take up her perch at the counter once more. She stared Boyd down, trying to gauge if he really meant the things he was saying, or if he was playing her to try to help his friends, to get back in their good graces when it should be _they_ begging to be let back into _his_. Eventually she sighed, said, "You're such a Boy Scout, nieto." She smiled fondly at him for a moment before saying, "How about a compromise? Let them send one of their betas, instead. That way they will have a presence here who won't be a threat. If I were the one making this decision, that is what I would do." One corner of her lips turned up into a smirk, "In fact, I was rather fond of Ms. Reyes when she visited last summer. I would invite her."

They locked gazes for a moment, two moments, three... and then Boyd started to laugh. Nick popped his head in from the living room to see what the joke was about just in time to see Boyd get himself under control, then rise to sweep Nina an elegant bow, "Professor, I may be alpha, but I'd be a fool to go against your better judgment. I'll extend the invitation tonight." His expression sobered as he added, quietly, "I've been wanting her and Isaac to see what we have going here, anyway. I think it would do them some good."

Before Nina could answer, Nick clapped his hands together and said, "Great! I always welcome visits from the lovely Erica and the delectable Isaac. So, now that we've settled all the worlds problems, how about letting us lessers into the kitchen so we can get with the culinary magic, hm?"

And even as Nick started to make shooing motions with his hands, Alexis reached up from behind him and, once again, smacked him across the back of the head. With an affectionate roll of her eyes, she added, "Idiot," then pushed up her sleeves and breezed past him into the kitchen.

Boyd watched it all with a smile on his face. They might be dysfunctional in their own way, but they were his and he was proud of each and every one of them. They'd get through this and come out the stronger for it on the other side. He'd make sure of it. He always did.

~~**~~**~~**~~

"He's going to be upset."

Stiles jumped at the sound of a small voice husking those words in his ear, then cursed as the vehicle on the screen was destroyed in a glittering fireball of an explosion. He sighed. Game over. On the upside, he had nothing but time to start as many new games as he wanted. Tilting his head back to give the young girl beside him a wry smile, he said, "Well, Maia. If you want my full attention, you have it. Who's upset?"

Maia shrugged, hunched in on herself a little as she said, "Shawn."

Stiles knew that posture all too well and felt a familiar ache start up in his chest at the scared, yet hopeful look on Maia's face. Poor kid. She was only eight years old, for crying out loud. She was so far removed from the time she'd come from that everyone she knew was probably dead.

Stiles hadn't been much older than Maia was now when his mother died. He'd still had his father, sure, and Scott, but he still remembered how very alone he'd felt, how it felt like every word that came out of his mouth was treated as insignificant at best and as an attention-grabbing lie at worst... even when it wasn't either of those things. He reached out a hand to Maia, smiled encouragingly when she took it, and pulled her down to sit next to him on the couch. Once she'd settled, he bumped her shoulder gently with his own, "Last I saw him he looked pretty chipper, Maia. Remember? His uncle's finally coming to visit today."

Far from having the desired effect of reassurance, however, those words made Maia hunch even further in on herself. Her next words were a harsh whisper and directed more towards her knees than towards Stiles. "I know. But, his talk isn't going to go very well. After that, he'll be upset."

Well... that was sufficiently creepy. Not that he'd tell Maia that. Stiles wrapped an arm around Maia's shoulders and lightly squeezed her against him. "OK, Maia. Thanks for the heads up. I'll do what I can to help, OK?"

Maia offered him a wan smile, her eyes, as always, far too knowing. It was unspoken between them, but Stiles knew what she wasn't saying. She knew things, did Maia Rutledge. She knew about things that were going to happen the way that most people knew about things that were right then happening. She hadn't been able to see the future before she'd been taken, but she did, now. It opened up a whole other can of questions that, quite frankly, neither Stiles nor Shawn was up to tackling. So, they said nothing. They didn't talk about it -- not to Maia, not to any of the NTAC agents -- and they'd told Maia to keep quiet about it, too. Stiles knew what the government did to people with special powers. Everyone knew that. This wasn't Marvel's Avengers universe, after all -- this was the world of Area 51. People like that didn't get recruited by the government -- they got experimented on by the government, taken apart to see what made them tick. And since aliens were obviously real and they were already being held in a very huge and very secret government bunker... well. The rest wasn't too hard to believe in, either. And Stiles didn't want to see Maia end up as some government flunky's lab rat. She was a good kid. She didn't deserve that.

After claiming a quick hug and another promise from him to look after Shawn, Maia said something about needing to go give someone a tissue and skipped off. That's right. Skipped. Like she was in a field of daisies or something, not a care in the world now that she'd done what she needed to do. Stiles snorted as he restarted the game from his last save point. Kids.

It was another twenty minutes before Shawn slumped down on the couch next to him and it didn't take a genius to figure out that Maia had been 100% correct. Shawn was upset. And on top of that upset, he was _pissed_. He looked like he was caught halfway between wanting to cry and wanting to pick up a chair and throw it at someone. Not good. Not good, at all. Trying to look as casual as possible, Stiles nudged Shawn's knee with his own. Eyes still focused on game, Stiles then kicked the second controller in Shawn's direction. That had always worked with Scott when he was upset. Blow some shit up together and then once some of the stress had bled away, Scott would usually be willing to talk. Stiles hadn't known Shawn as long as he had Scott, but he was banking on the fact that the same would work for him.

Shawn stared at the controller for a minute, as though he'd no idea what it was for, then slowly reached down to pick it up. Within another five minutes, they were deeply engrossed in battling their way down through a dungeon of monsters -- and if Stiles still felt the need to laugh and cry simultaneously whenever a hulking brute of a wolfman came on the screen, he kept it to himself -- still not speaking a word.

Stiles had found it strange, at first, how easily he and Shawn had become friends. Stiles was no fool. He knew he was difficult to get along with. He knew he was strange. He knew he drove most normal people a little crazy. Scott had been the only friend he'd had who'd stuck around long enough to figure out that there was someone worthwhile underneath that spazzed out exterior, and even he and Scott didn't have this. In moments like this -- silent, working towards a goal in tandem... sometimes, Stiles almost felt as though he and Shawn were so in tune that it was like they shared a brain. Stiles would see an enemy off on the left of the screen and know that Shawn hadn't seen it and that Stiles couldn't reach it in time and just when he'd figure it was game over for one of them... Shawn would take it out as if he'd seen it all along... when he hadn't.

It was probably all that time that they'd spent rotting their brains on the same damned games -- over and over and over and over and over, again -- in the days since they'd been put together in quarantine. Still... Stiles couldn't help but think about Maia... and wonder if there was something more to it than that.

Several hours later when grumbling stomachs and tired eyes finally forced them to put the game on hold, Stiles nudged Shawn with his knee, again. "You OK, man?"

Shawn just shook his head, mumbled, "I don't really want to talk about it. Suffice it to say that we're not getting any help from my uncle and if I don't talk to him again any time soon, I won't miss him."

"Fair enough." Stiles clapped Shawn on the shoulder and rose from the couch, stretched some of the kinks out of his back as he did. When Shawn slowly rose to his feet, as well, Stiles wrapped an arm around his neck in a one-armed hug. "How about we just see what they're trying to poison us with, tonight, instead, then, huh?"

Shawn laughed, eyes finally lightening a little with Stiles' routine complaints about the cooking at the quarantine facility. Stiles had commented once that it was so awful that at least no one was going to get fat off it, but really, it wasn't so bad. Shawn didn't mind it so much. Maybe that was thanks to a childhood worth of nights spent at his cousin's house being fed by his Uncle Tommy -- who, according to Shawn, really couldn’t cook. Then again, Stiles' father wasn't a great cook, either, and that hadn't stopped Stiles from developing a palate for the finer foods in life. Really, there was just no excuse for bad taste and as soon as they were out, Stiles was going to see about educating his new friend in the ways of good food.

They ate their dinner in silence -- and really, the lasagna wasn't so bad, once you got over the fact that you couldn't tell if the little chunks were meat or vegetables, and really, who cared about that? -- and eventually reclaimed their spot on the couch to resume their game. Maia came by to watch, though whether it was to watch Stiles and Shawn or watch the game they were playing, Stiles couldn't say for sure. Sometimes you couldn't tell with Maia. Eventually she took up a perch on the arm of the couch to Stiles' right, swinging her legs so that they bumped rhythmically against it. Rather than being distracting, though, Stiles found it almost soothing -- like a heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. He lulled into it, falling into a sort of half-trance as he played, feeling Shawn soon fall into it with him. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It wasn't until the lights flashed a warning overhead, announcing twenty minutes to lights-out that Stiles realized how long they'd sat like that, unmoving, zoned out on a cheap video game and the sound of Maia's gently thumping feet. Weird. When they got up, Shawn was finally calmer, looked less like he wanted to cry -- certainly less like he wanted to throw things. Maia gave them a cryptic smile as she moved off to get ready for bed, but she said nothing and Stiles didn't feel up to calling her on it. As they moved around the couch to head over to their bunk section, though, Stiles tripped over it, nearly fell. Only Shawn's quick hand under his arm stopped him from face planting right into the tiles.

As he got his feet back under him, Shawn leaned over, a crease between his brows and worry in his eyes. "You OK, man?"

Stiles shook his head to clear it of the last of the haze, raised a hand to gently rub at his temple. Was he OK? Yeah, he was OK. He didn't feel sick or anything... but he was tired as all hell all of a sudden. Which was ridiculous because he'd been sitting on his ass all day playing video games. Normally that had him revved up, not powered down. Eventually he pulled a smile out from somewhere and poked Shawn in the shoulder. He said, "I told you, man. They're trying to poison us."

Shawn laughed it off and shoved him right back, as Stiles had known he would. And since he'd already half-braced for the resulting vertigo when that shove knocked him off kilter, Stiles was able to cover it by over-exaggerating it and shoving a chair or two out of his way. It worked. Shawn laughed again, fully restored to good humor. And that was good. He'd had a rough enough day. He didn't need some worry over Stiles' health to add to it. Besides... Stiles really was just tired. A good night's sleep should set him right. He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize -- I don't speak Spanish. If you do, and I've used something incorrectly, please don't hesitate to let me know. Thanks!
> 
> Ay, Dios mio! = Oh, my G-d!  
> nieto = grandson
> 
> Enjoy the premier tomorrow, everyone! :D :D :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grass could use some mowing, Scott thought, and there were weeds growing in the little herb garden. There was a car in the driveway, the hood still warm from the running engine, but even with that sign of habitation, the entire place had the feel of somewhere abandoned, unlived in. It was a house, now… no longer a home. He winced, took a half-step backward. He couldn't go in there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _August 14, 2013:_** Holy cow, guys. I did not intend to abandon this story for so long. I intended to get fired up by the June premiere of season 3 and writewritewritewritewrite my little fingers off, zinging with wolfy joy.
> 
> ...it didn't happen.
> 
> Forgive me now whilst I go off on a tangent...
> 
> I'm having... well. I'm having problems with Season 3. A lot of problems. And I just didn't really know what to do with them. So, I've developed this love-hate relationship with Season 3 canon. I have so much love for everything the adult generation is doing. I love Melissa McCall. I love Chris Argent. I love Sheriff Stilinski. I love Peter Hale. I love Alan Deaton and Ms. Morell (whose name isn't Deaton, now... WHY? ARGH. PLOT HOLES.).
> 
> And I still love Stiles.
> 
> Most of the rest of the younger generation, however, is leaving me flailing in not-squee. And that's super irritating to me, because I loved this show so much. Well, this morning, I finally tipped the scales on my irritation level over into wanting to FIX ALL THE THINGS. Which means fic. And rewriting Season 3 how I would have wanted it to go. Which, conveniently enough, is what this fic already does. ^_~
> 
> So, spurred on by that and a need to see the adults being awesome some more... an update. It's shorter than all the previous chapters, but it served its purpose in getting me thinking about this story again and I'm pleased with it, so I'm just going to post it and be grateful I was able to write it at all. -.-;;;
> 
> To all of you who have stuck with me so patiently and left me comments and reviews... THANK YOU. I love each and every one of you and sincerely hope I don't leave you this much in the lurch again. ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/58265419129/our-place-in-time-22562-words-by-renee-chan).
> 
> **_OK. Fixed. So sorry about all those mistakes, guys! I've learned my lesson. -.-;;;_ **
> 
> * * *

The grass could use some mowing, Scott thought, and there were weeds growing in the little herb garden. There was a car in the driveway, the hood still warm from the running engine, but even with that sign of habitation, the entire place had the feel of somewhere abandoned, unlived in. It was a house, now… no longer a home. He winced, took a half-step backward. He couldn't go in there.

A firm hand in the center of Scott's back propelled him forward and the gruff voice that spoke from behind him had him wincing for an entirely different reason. "If you think I'm going to let you even think about running off to another state without informing your mother of where you're going, you really don't know me that well, anymore, Scott. Buck up and move your ass." Another none-so-gentle shove accompanied those words.

Scott forced his back to straighten, his shoulders to square, forced himself to take in a breath from air which felt devoid of oxygen. He shook off the Sheriff's hand and walked up to the front door. It wasn't until he'd raised his hand to knock that he remembered he didn't have to. He had a key. This was his home. He had every right to be here.

Scott knocked anyway.

When Melissa McCall opened the front door three minutes later to the tableau of her son and the Sheriff framed by its borders, Scott felt an eerie sense of déjà vu. How many times had he stood on this side of the door, Sheriff Stilinski's hand tangled in the scruff of his jacket while Stiles sat behind them locked in the back of his squad car? How many times had the Sheriff hauled Scott's ass home after he and Stiles had had some adventure which had gone too far? How many times had Scott been forced to sit on the couch in the living room listening to his mother and the Sheriff exchanging exasperated tales of woe over his head and wishing nothing more than to have Stiles sitting beside him instead of hundreds of feet away in the car? He felt no differently, now… only now, Stiles was hundreds of miles and an entire lifetime away instead of a mere hundred feet. And that was the point.

Scott didn't fight it when the Sheriff pushed him past his mother into the house, nor did he fight it when he was shoved in the direction of the couch so the adults could speak. For one precious moment, it felt as though nothing had changed and Scott held onto that feeling so tightly that for another precious moment, he almost had himself convinced that if he looked out the window, he'd see Stiles waving at him from inside the squad car.

But, he wasn't.

And Scott couldn't shake the feeling that even with this latest bit of hope… he might never be, again.

"The Sheriff told me you saw the news, Scott." A pause. "I did, too."

Scott looked up at his mother, really looked at her, for the first time in what seemed like forever. There were deep circles under her eyes and worse, the eyes themselves seemed bruised. Her hair was tied back in its habitual ponytail, but even the curls seemed limp. She looked exhausted. "Mom…"

Melissa tossed Scott a distracted smile, one that didn't reach her eyes, as she sat beside him on the couch and patted his knee. "I worry about you, Scott. It seems sometimes that's all I ever do. I worry about you getting hurt. I worry about you hurting someone else. I worry about you being so alone." She smiled again, self-directed and bitter, a little of the old fire in her voice when she spoke, again. "Don't get me wrong, Scott. I knew that's what I was signing up for when I decided to have a kid. Moms worry. It's what we do." She sighed. "But, this is too much worry for a mother to handle alone."

Turning to face Scott on the couch, Melissa lifted her hands to cup his face, gently stroked her thumbs along the high cheekbones which so well-matched her own. "I love you, Scott. I only want what's best for you. And what's best for you is to have Stiles back." She gripped him a little tighter, the fire in her voice hardening to steel. "But, you promise me something, too. From now on, you remember that you're not in this alone. If you need help, you come to me. If you're lonely, you come to me. If you're unhappy, you come to me." Her voice cracked on the next words, but held firm, "If you need someone to hold you and protect you and tell you that everything is going to be all right… I signed up for that, too. _You come to me._ OK?"

Scott met that tired but fierce gaze and, for the first time in two years, let himself remember how good it felt to rest on another's strength. Tentatively, wild shy, and uncertain, he leaned forward, rested his head against his mother's shoulder. And when her strong arms closed around him, cradled him to her as though he were a child seeking shelter from the dark, his hands spasmed once, then clenched in the stiff cotton of her scrubs. And when his incoming breaths began to sound more like sobs, Melissa said nothing. She just held him as he cried himself to sleep.

* * *

A soft creak at the window, the gentle shush of fabric rustling, the quiet tread of unshod feet against the carpet. Those sounds, so easily missed by most, were better than an alarm clock to the one they awoke. He could have had the intruder knocked out flat with a knife to his throat or a bullet lodged somewhere important, but the tread of those footfalls was a familiar one. Instead, he subtly shifted the grip he had around the hilt of the knife under his pillow to slide it quietly under the blanket, so that when the intruder's weight settled on the bed beside him, he was able to rest the point of that knife against the other man's hip, lightly pricking through cloth. A wry laugh sounded from above him.

"I'd ask if that was a knife in your pocket or if you were just happy to see me, but I'm relatively certain that it actually is a knife… and you're not happy to see me." When he still failed to move, the other man shifted uncomfortably and said, "Chris, we both know you're awake. Knock it off."

Chris opened his eyes at that, frowned at the man looming over him and pressed a little harder against the knife. The Sheriff winced and obligingly rose from the bed to allow him to roll into a sitting position. Chris frowned as he tucked the knife back into its sheath beneath his pillow. "We've talked about this. I have a front door to which you have the key. I also have a phone to which you have the number. I realize you're unsettled after earlier tonight, but that's no excuse for forgetting basic manners."

The two men stared each other down, frowns deepening and bodies tensing. It was the Sheriff who broke first, lunging forwards to grab Chris' face in his hands and bring their lips together. Chris tensed, hands coming up and under the Sheriff's arms instinctively to break out of that hold, but quickly reversing the move afterwards to grab at the fabric of the Sheriff's sleeves and pull him closer. The kiss deepened, tongues touching, lips barking against teeth, air becoming scarce.

It was always like this. Desperate. Hot. Needy. It had started like this -- fast and hard and never tender -- both men sucker-punched by too much loss and smarting from the pain of having to somehow remain strong. They'd found some comfort in each other, in being around someone who understood that pain without having to run over and over it like a broken tooth. They were good at bottling their feelings and pressing onwards to do the job, the Stilinskis and the Argents… and they were no exception to the molds.

They broke apart just long enough for the Sheriff to shuck out of his jacket before resuming that bruising kiss. But, when the Sheriff tried to climb onto the bed, Chris stopped him with a hand on his chest, voice breathless but firm with disapproval. "John. If I'm not allowed to sleep with a gun in my bed, then you're not allowed to bring one into it, either."

John pulled back, eyes blank and confused, until Chris reached out to tap his belt buckle. "Off."

As he obliged, John rolled his eyes. "It's a perfectly reasonable rule. You shot me once."

"No. I shot the shoulder of your jacket, once. Besides, that was a crossbow, not a gun, and you'd just broken into my house through my bedroom window while my daughter was sleeping down the hall. I thought I showed remarkable restraint by not damaging more than your jacket. Why? How would you have liked me to react?"

John smiled as he placed his belt gently down on top of his discarded jacket, climbed back onto the bed and grabbed Chris' ass to pull him closer, rocking against him as their bodies aligned. Chris gasped, but his eyes were dancing with mischief. "But, no doubt you'd disapprove if I reacted to every bedroom invasion like that. Weapons are still the safer option."

Rolling them so that he was underneath with Chris straddling his hips, John said, "Only from where you're sitting. Besides, who other than myself routinely enters your house through a bedroom window?"

Chris stilled above him, one hand braced on John's chest for balance, his eyes becoming suddenly and inexplicably sad as he murmured, "You'd be surprised." He slid from his position then, left the Sheriff on the bed as he crossed the room to close the window. Back still facing the bed, he said softly, "You shouldn't be here, John. Allison had a rough day and she's a lighter sleeper when she's unhappy. She'll see us."

The Sheriff pushed himself up onto his elbows and raised an eyebrow. "She already knows about us, Chris. You've had me over for dinner. What's the difference?"

Chris sighed, turned to brace himself on the window ledge. "The difference is that no child wants to walk in on their parent having sex. The difference is that she has to take priority for me, tonight." He shook his head. "The difference is that you're not really here for me… you're here for a distraction. I understand that -- I really do -- but I can't afford a distraction. Not tonight. Not when my daughter needs me. Do you understand?"

John pushed himself upright and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. Eyes fixed on the floor, he said, "I'm not here only for a distraction."

Chris raised an eyebrow at that, took a step closer. They'd never really defined this thing between them, always let it just exist without prodding it to reveal its secrets. It worked better that way, took some of the pressure off. Casual was easier, less risky. To men who had lost so much, it was appealing to not have to invest more than felt safe. Still… somehow, even with that understanding, Chris had found that he had grown attached. Maybe it was because he hadn't been alone as long as the Sheriff, was still in the habit of having someone with whom to share his life, maybe it was because he wasn't really alone at all… because he still had Allison and felt more comfortable widening that circle of trust. Whatever the reason, somewhere deep inside himself where he only barely acknowledged it, Chris _had_ let himself become attached and had dared to begin to hope that someday John might do the same.

He hadn't expected it to happen like this.

Hesitantly, not wanting to push, Chris asked, "Then why are you here?"

John pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and made a noise of frustration. "I don't-- no. That's not true." He dropped his hands, turned to look at Chris, shrugged helplessly -- a listless lift of shoulders bent so far they were nearly broken. "My son… My son is alive." His voice broke on the next words. "I don't… Chris, I don't know what to do with that. I think… all this time, I really believed he was dead. What kind of father gives up on his own son like that?"

Chris moved back over to sit on the bed, lifted a hand to lightly grip the Sheriff's shoulder. Quietly, he said, "The kind of father who is also a sheriff. The kind of father who has seen so much death in his tenure as sheriff that that's sometimes all he can see."

A soft huff of bitter laughter. "You sound like you speak from experience."

"I do." At John's raised eyebrow, Chris said, "We don't talk about it much, you and I, but you know what I am." Nodding towards the array of weapons on and around his bed, Chris said, "I've been fighting a war -- a war which has claimed the lives of thousands of my kin over the years -- since I was old enough to shave. And I've been training to fight that war since I was old enough to walk. John… I'm no stranger to death. I'm no stranger to how it can overwhelm a man's sight. I'm no stranger to how it can be easier to let yourself believe you are avenging a loved one who is dead than to deal with the kind of monster you have to let yourself become to find them alive."

Chris left it unspoken, that among his family, finding a loved one alive often meant having to end them yourself. John wouldn't understand. He still didn't know the truth about Victoria -- not even Allison knew that. It was a secret Chris intended to take with him to the grave.

John turned to look at Chris out of the corner of his eye and said wryly, "Why couldn't you just say: 'Oh, you're a great father. Now, stop worrying about it and fuck me.'?"

Chris lifted an eyebrow in return. "Because burying your emotions underneath gratuitous amounts of violence and sex has been so helpful in solving your problems in the past…?"

"…you have a point." John sighed, went back to pressing his hands against his eyes. When he finally stopped, it was to speak his next words so quietly that they almost went unheard. "I just don't want to be alone."

Chris stood up from the bed and reached out to pull John up, as well. Silently, he began unbuttoning John's shirt, helped divest him of both that and his pants, then turned to lift the covers and gestured underneath them. Equally silent, the Sheriff slid under and scooted across to the other side of the bed. When Chris climbed in after him, that silence fell over them like a suffocating second blanket as both shifted around, tried to find a comfortable way to accommodate each other's sleeping positions.

They'd never done this before. John had never spent the night after sex. He'd certainly never spent the night after no sex. Initially John pulled as far away from Chris as he could, perhaps not wanting to crowd him or restrict his access to any weapon he might need overnight. He soon changed tactics, though, perhaps considering the possibility of what might happen if Chris had that weapons access and forgot he'd invited John to stay when he woke up -- the effect being that John wrapped both his arms and legs around Chris like an overly affectionate octopus… until Chris discouraged that behavior with a scowl and an elbow to his ribs.

Finally, Chris gave John a none-too-gentle shove to roll him onto his side and turned himself so that his back pressed against John's. It was how he and Victoria had slept -- pressed closely together, protecting each other's backs, covering the entire room and not interfering with either's access to any weapon they needed. They'd never needed to discuss it, had both simply understood. He was taking a chance that the same would hold for the Sheriff. Though John initially tensed, unsure, after a few moments, he began to relax. When he did, Chris asked softly, "You good?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I'm good."

"Then go to sleep, John. I'll keep watch."

And to both men's surprise, it wasn't more than five minutes before the Sheriff did exactly that. And, though Chris kept his word and stayed awake and on guard through the night, the bright spark in John's eyes over the breakfast table in the morning and the renewed vigor in his step proved that it had been the most restful sleep that _he'd_ had in quite some time.

When John left to begin his shift, Allison stepped up to her father and wrapped an arm around his waist, a hesitant smile lightening her own features in a way it hadn't since Stiles disappeared. "So… can I expect this to be a regular occurrence?"

Chris huffed out a laugh and pulled her close. "Watch your tone, you."

Allison smiled, turned twinkling eyes up to regard the bags beneath her father's. "I'm only asking because it seems that you didn't get much sleep. And if this _is_ going to be a regular thing, afternoon naps might not be a bad idea."

Chris groaned. "It's not what you think…"

Allison smirked, leaned up to press a peck of a kiss on her father's cheek. "Sure it's not, Dad. It never is."

When Allison had gone -- and there was no chance of her returning -- Chris finally caved in to that sensible suggestion. He couldn't afford to be off his game. Not now. Not when he was so woefully unprepared for what was coming. They were going to need information and there were far too few sources for the kind of information they were going to need. And Chris wouldn't approach a single one of them without being as well-rested and prepared as he could be.

It was time for this soldier to return to the battlefield… and _this_ time, he'd be damned if he left anyone behind.


End file.
